


The Missing Heart of Lazarus

by panickedbee



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Don't worry, F/F, F/M, M/M, Magical Realism, Not Really Character Death, Romance, Science Fiction & Fantasy, Steampunk, Vampires, War, Witchcraft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-07
Updated: 2017-09-28
Packaged: 2018-05-05 09:24:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 18
Words: 123,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5370143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/panickedbee/pseuds/panickedbee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After being sent home from a secret war against the supernatural, Knight Captain and Doctor John Watson is scarred and miserable. Being back in London, and all by himself, he has yet no idea how quickly one's life can turn around when one meets the right people at the right time.</p><p>AU set in an alternate Victorian era of a Steampunk universe.<br/>Prepare for mystery, mayhem, magic and a world in which nothing is as it seems.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Stage Is Set

**Author's Note:**

> Story time: This was the project I worked on a whole month for NaNoWriMo 2015. (National Novel Writing Month)  
> Over the whole November, I spent so much time trying to get those 50,000 words written. And I succeeded!  
> It was an amazing experience, and it taught me that with discipline, passion and a good idea everything is possible! (That actually sounds so cheesy.)  
> I'm very proud of this story, but it is far from finished. It's my first time I tried writing an AU in the Sherlockverse, and it can be very difficult because you have to make up a whole new world! But it can give you a lot of stuff and ideas to write up, and it's so much fun.  
> Long story short, I hope you'll enjoy this fanfiction as much as I do (and my friends who I more or less forced to test read it). There are lots of things hidden in here. Maybe you'll find some on your way.  
> Have fun! And good luck...

Screams. Deafening, earsplitting, vicious. It shouldn't get to him so much, the sound of them burning and dying from the silver easing through their pale flesh. It shouldn't be so horrible.

He was running. In between trees, couldn't see anything, darkness, fire in the distance. Then, on the battlefield, men were shouting – his men! Loud noises of firing weapons drilled into his skull, and his head, it hurt, it _hurt_ so much.

The screams were getting louder, they got closer, and they were fast. It was so dark that he needed to trust his instincts, he needed to filter. Ignore the loud gunfire, the tormented cries of death. He tightened the grip around his rifle, not allowing himself for one second to be too careless. The water had made the material wet and slippery in his hands, endless streams were rinsing down from the crown of his head, making him want to shiver, to blink it away a thousand times.

_When had the rain started?_

It didn't matter. He was holding the weapon close, one eye closed tightly, so he could set his aim with the other. There it was. A clear headshot. He could see it in his mind's eye, having witnessed and performed it countless times already. He could. _He would._ It was fast, but he would shoot it. This was war.

Dark, blood-shot eyes, white, wounded skin, digging teeth. In front of him, right in front of him. His heart choked on the shock, his legs lost ground, being pulled down in the dirt so suddenly, with such strength. No escape.

_Was the ground wet? Muddy? Did it really rain?_

He was held down, he was caught. The only thing saving him from blood soaked fangs was the gun that both he and the creature gripped on both ends, playing the game of willpower. Willpower wouldn't save him this time, he knew, _oh_ , he knew. But it didn't have to, he told himself. He could die in battle. Right on the field. Here in the mud. In the dirt. In between shouting knights and horrifying screams, in between so much death that one more wouldn't even strike. He was just scared of what he would become, what an undead life would bring for him as soon as this sharp fangs had sunken into his neck.

Warm blood mixed with saliva was dripping onto his cheek, running down his chin and he shivered. Those dead eyes probably scared him the most. This pure nothingness that seemed so useless, so wasted. Was that really all they could be? Their true form? He waited. He waited and waited, for seconds – _hours!_ \- for the stinging pain of eager teeth that would then cause his heart to slow and be slower still, stop forever.

"Mine," it gasped, close to his ear, voice so unholy it would restrain a hundred wooden stakes.

It was over. He couldn't fight it anymore, his arms burned from trying to hold the monster back. No one should ever be prepared to die, but he could. _He would._

Closing his eyes, giving up prolonging the madness that should be his last day on this earth, he could hear one last cry. It was different, so different, and his eyes snapped open when he knew.

_"Watson!"_

Hot blood and brain matter covered his face, and now the only scream that was ringing in his ears was his own, and he died, he died, he must be dead now.

_Please, God, let me live, for death can't ever hurt so much._

His left shoulder felt like it had been ripped from his torso, and all the rain, all the rain, all the rain diluted the red pool of blood as he bled out on the battlefield.

 

John was sweating and shivering hard. The ache in his shoulder had returned. Not that this would be something he was not used to. Nightmares were haunting him since the day he got bit by the undead with a bullet implanted to the back of its head. In the end, that bullet had made him see another day. It had saved him, and he knew that, had he been faced with the decision to lose a comrade and create yet another monster or take the risk to shoot them both and kill this beast with it, he would have done the same. There was just one little difference: had he been the one to shoot, another man would sit on this train this very moment, scarred but alive and about to go back to his family. While he, former captain of his unit, only remained a crippled knight with no one there to wait for him in the beautiful capital.

He let out a long sigh, still shaken by the realism of his unsolicited dream. With one side of his face pressed against the cold glass, he watched rain drops running down the window, chasing each other.

 _Rain._ Of course.

He had never minded living alone. He did not even particularly desire having a stronger bond with his family. That was why he decided to join the Order in the first place. Obviously, this was not the main reason, but it had been what he needed back then. Purpose, freedom, defending his country. In London people barely knew that they were at war. It did not cut a figure in their daily lives. John already knew this would make him mad. To bear the knowledge of what was going on out there and right inside of him, so real, so close, and having to swallow down the lump right below his throat while everyone else was so oblivious to it.

When he exhaled the next shuddering breath it painted a milky cloud onto the window. _Almost no one knows of them,_ he thought, thinking of all the horrors he had seen and shared with the other members of the Order. All of them had seen it. All of them had lost the same amount of men, women, friends, companions to cold death and its monsters.

 _Vampyres._ Dangerous, undead creatures, quick and able to kill within a half second of someone else's carelessness.

No one else was allowed to know of them. Of the existence of a race that was superior in battle, bestial and yet sharp. John had been able to live with the bearing of those secrets and he knew what was at stake at all times if he was anything other than ready for the next day full of life or death choices. He knew and everyone else knew, and that made them share something that was truly special in its own tragic way. They shared their losses and joys, secrets and traumas.

And now? Even if he wanted to, he had no one to share with what he dreamed about. _Nightmared about?_ What shook him, made him want to scream and shout the pain away forever, or what he had wished for on the day the vampyre's skull had swallowed the deadly silver while thrusting its teeth into John's skin hard enough to almost break bone. If it had been up to him, he would not sit here today. Death by duty. An honourable way to die, and the world could do without him.

That was what he thought about almost always whenever he slowly drifted off to sleep again. As slumber pressed him against the cold, hard layer that separated him from the storm outside.

Next stop: The City of London.

 

Clouds were shoving one another in front of the sun, making the sky appear like a chaos of grey, blue and white. A weather almost as English as the storm that had accompanied him for the first part of his ride, and one John Watson could as well approve of. One could nearly conjecture where the famous outline of familiar London might have hidden behind dark clouds of the steam the train breathed out. Being back here at last always felt like coming home, even though home was rather associated more with people than places.

He set foot on the plastered pavement of the station platform and lifted his suitcase to get it out of the open train door. He didn't have much, apart from the uniform he was already wearing. Dark blue coat secured tightly with a large leather belt around his waist, embellished with red and golden embroideries and polished buttons, silver armour stretched on top of long leather gloves, on his boots and around his collar.

John's luggage did mostly consist of weapons he technically wasn't even allowed to own anymore, (but he did have some connections to people who were capable of concealing a little) and, of course, his medical bag. He was, after all, still a doctor, even if right now he definitely looked like someone who caused terror and flesh wounds himself. He felt like a broken soldier.

Behind him there was a child, hardly older than fourteen, that almost stumbled over his bag when she got out. She didn't seem to mind as she ran towards a couple, that could only be her parents, with excitement and joy written all over her features and hugged them tightly. An elderly man stepped out after her, smiling warmly as he spoke.

"Children are a marvel, aren't they? he said to John, still watching the girl from afar. "I'm her grandfather. Took her to the countryside for a few weeks. I almost envy how she can still be so full of energy."

"Yes." Now John was watching her too, jumping around and seemingly telling the stories of her adventures. _Enjoy this time,_ he thought, _while people are still listening to your stories and you can still be bright and cheerful._

He had seen so many dark places himself, he had started feeling that there was not one bit of him left now that would belong to a place that was not covered in shadows, in order for him to make sure that the sun could keep on shining. Not that he would consider himself a hero. He was just doing what he was good at, which was facing the darkness. His face was much too worn, now, to be cast in the light.

The girl reminded him of Harry a little, and he felt the presence of this hole in his chest where he ought to miss her. Harry, the little annoying sister who would never let him play with her toys. And in a way that equalled their relationship as it was today at least partially. He knew she also lived in London now. But London was big enough to avoid her at all costs.

"A knight, are you not?"

The old man seemed to finally look him over and recognised his uniform. A chance for John to also look the man in the eye that was standing uncomfortably close to him for at least two minutes now. He wore a beard of dark blond to light grey hairs, covering almost all of his thin upper lip and a fair amount of his chin. His forehead looked almost unending, for his hair had fallen out in a way that left the remaining longer strands on the back of his head almost looking out of place. He smiled a smile that didn't reach his steel blue eyes, and he wore a monocle. If it had not been for the bits of his clothes that suggested higher class, he would have looked far more intimidating, even to John.

"Knight and doctor, yes."

"Oho," he laughed out loud, apparently an act to tell John he was impressed, "An army surgeon! Well, sometimes I do wish, as much as I love them, that my wife, God may bless her, or my beautiful daughter would have borne me a lad to serve Queen and Country. What an honourable work that must be for a man!"

 _Serving Queen and Country is not_ exactly _what we're doing, to be precise,_ John thought, pursing his lips in the attempt of not calling him out on his stupidity. "You do know," he started anyways, "that there were women in armour where I come from, fighting with me side by side? A lot of those attitudes have changed already."

„Well,“ that seemed to have bewildered the man, not knowing what to say, and he may have unconsciously taken a step back, „My granddaughter surely is a very vigorous little creature. But imagining her firing off weapons in the field? Oh no. No, no, no. Poor girls are not made for war, my friend, you will certainly agree to that?“

That was exactly the kind of attitude that John had wanted to avoid. Oh, how he had not missed this in the slightest. In the zone where he was coming from people thought modern. Gender did not matter a lot, no one had to fulfil a certain role if they were good at something they would not usually be considered to be designated for. It was all about working together on something that was bigger than them. And this fire that had lit up inside of John, every time he had been reminded that he was somehow a part of what all those people were fighting for, would now only set alight as a ludicrously tiny flame; a shadow of its former glory.

"I would not, actually, no," murmured John, not in any way motivated enough to engage in this discussion about human rights and prejudices.

The things he had seen in a war zone. If he had learned one thing then it would be that gender, indeed, did not matter when it came to certain things. Things one was made to be, born to do, designed only by mother nature herself. It did not only include knowing how to fight, but also knowing how to love.

John's gaze followed the girl and her parents for a while before his eyes travelled around the station, watching. Crowds filled with women and men, in dresses and suits, enfolding their loved ones in their arms with a desperation and relief that was written across their whole appearances. John could only feel a dull ache in his chest. Sometimes, he wished he could feel something like this again.

Love. Longing. Anything to replace whatever silenced his forever steadily beating heart. He just wanted to feel as if he was living an actual life with meaning and purpose. But his last wish had exposed itself as a lie, not having been his last wish at all, and now … now he was staring into the void.

"You are not a freelancer, are you?" the man asked, and jolted him out of his thoughts. John was starting to get more and more uncomfortable by the odd curiosity of him. "No," he continued, answering his own question, "No, not with that pretty uniform of yours..."

The way in which that man was eyeing him from head to toe made an actual shiver run down his spine. He was not sure what it said about him that he was slowly becoming angry as much as uncomfortable for being too distracted by him to sink into this isolated bubble of self-pity that he had already reserved for himself. John had no idea what this grandfather could want from him, and just as he began wondering he asked himself if he really was that little girl's relative. Freaks like this could exist in any form, after all, and he would not be naive enough to think only the obvious kinds of monsters existed in this world.

"But women- oh, women! Dangerous, those women when they go a bit freelance. And we wouldn't want that for little Elizabeth, now would we? We wouldn't want her to become a... _bad girl_."

It was pure prudence and self-control that kept John from forcing that fleabag of a man to his knees and ram the ironclad toe of his shoe where no man would ever want to feel pain. This fellow disgusted him, and it must have shown on his face because the man just chuckled. "Na, na. No reason looking like that, young man. I am only a businessman with one or two insights of how reality truly is. Even if it isn't what we want it to be."

John swallowed, and his Adam's apple bobbed as he tried to keep his body from enduring yet another shiver. There was something so wrong and so weird about this situation that he was torn between preparing himself for a fight and turning around, getting back on the train and escaping from this city and his responsibilities altogether. This was not so much about this _business_ man as it was about him not being ready to face a life like it should bepredicted for him, all possibilities laid out already, and he realised: There was no escape.

He reached for his suitcase blindly to finally flee the scene.

"Good day, sir."

When he let his form bore itself a way through the crowds that were waiting for the next train to come in and carry off, trying not to shudder in still disgusted memory of the look on this man's face, said man was retreating to be back with his granddaughter. Seemingly cheerful being back with his family when John himself was still alone.

 

***

 

The Criterion was loud and stuffed at this time of day. Or evening, to be more precise. John had arrived by train in London around noon, threw his one piece of luggage onto the small bed by mid-day to leave the deplorably petty flat that his former membership in the knight's Order had provived him with, and walked out of the building as soon as he had thrown on a pair of new clothes. Standing out was about as far down on his list of desirable events for this night as it could be.

When he stepped into the tavern no one was looking at him. _Good,_ he thought and mentally patted himself on the back for the more or less random choices he had made when choosing his clothes. Brown was the colour that was surrounding them all, wooden frames, tables and chairs. The floor paved with mole-coloured stone, the bar itself decorated with subtle golden elements and patterns engraved in iron. The walls held a fair amount of pictures in sepia, of former owners and famous people who had enjoyed a good drink here once, also paintings of airships and the London skyline.

John could feel the heat within his coffee-coloured, buttoned leather jacket, so he pealed it off and swung it over his arm. Thus, he revealed a beige, ribbed jumper of thin material, which complimented his still mascular build, shaped from his previous occupation. He kept on his fingerless leather gloves out of habit, and clenched his fists as he passed through the bunch of other inhabitants and service members with confidence, his chin up high.

In all his years of serving in the knighthood, he had learned how to compensate the possible disadvantage of his height with building an aura of sheer authority and dominance around himself. Out here, within this lot of feisty, drunken men, this could still be a counterproductive sort of manner, but he thought that tonight he didn't want to care. He was here for the same, legitimate reason as almost everyone else, after all.

To have a drink.

He was wandering towards the counter of the pub, ignoring the loud shreds of all the half-drunken conversations he passed by and sat down.

"Don't you wanna hang up your jacket?"

A woman's voice from behind the counter startled him for a second, and he looked up into brown eyes. She did not exactly look like she was working here, her curly hair untamed and jumping whenever she moved her head, and her clothes were sorely black and white.

"Should you not ask me what I want to drink?"

The woman uttered a huff and crossed her arms as to make her position clear. She did not seem intimidated or worried by the risk of putting off a costumer, apparently. Not that John was planning on going anywhere. Not before he got the drink he knew he needed so badly after this whole trip.

"Well, and I will. But you cannot just have your stuff laying on the counter. If everyone would do that, where would I be supposed to put your drink on then, hmh?"

She did have a point, of course. But John only gritted his teeth as he gripped the jacket as if to put it down, only to hold onto it in mid-thought.

"I'd rather not have it where I can't see it." He knew he could come off as a bit paranoid about certain things, but leaving his best jacket unattended in a crowded environment like this hardly seemed like a good idea. Also, his illegal revolver was attached to the inside of its pocket, and if anyone got wind of that...

"The hooks are literally just there, man," she pointed out stolidly, cocking her head to the side where other jackets were hanging on the wall to John's left, her curls bouncing to the movement. "No need to be so difficult about it."

John wanted to object, but he only found himself pursing his lips in quiet disagreement as she took the leather clothing from his hands and attempted to hang it up on one of the free hooks. Both of them stilled for a moment when the lady was about to shake the jacket, as if to straighten it, just as her gaze fell upon something that made her freeze in motion. Exactly the kind of situation John wanted to avoid, and he swallowed, trying to stay calm enough to quickly think of a possible excuse.

But she was faster. "I promise I will look after your _jacket_ , alright?"

There was something in her eyes, and John swore it also laid underneath her tone of voice. He knew she had seen it. And she knew that he knew she had seen it. Did she not want trouble or could keeping quiet about this still count as _costume service_? It didn't matter. At least not to her, by the look of it. When she was standing opposite his chair behind the bar again, it was as if the last three minutes had never existed. As if John was just a new costumer to her, about to make an order.

"What can I do for you then?"

John was striving to blink away the perplexed expressions on his face and get his act together as fast as she had done, but he still hesitated. "I- Erm. Absinthe, please."

He cleared his throat once while she prepared his drink. Distrust was his at all times present companion that he had never chosen to be accompanied by, but this was how things were for him now. So to witness someone keeping a secret – especially someone keeping _his_ secret – was so incredibly surprising and new a concept to him that he simply could not quite wrap his mind around it. If he was absolutely honest with himself, it was relieving in a way. Knowing that, despite all the horror he had seen and been a part of himself not even weeks ago, there was still hope out there. It was almost hard to believe that, after all those years he had spent in battle, he had completely forgotten what their Order was fighting for. Protecting the people in this very city, to keep them as alive and merry as John could watch them be tonight.

It felt a little strange, being here. Not quite like a vacation, but not quite like having arrived on some solid ground, either. And now he found himself in between this laughing, drinking, celebrating folk, being so close to the citizens that he had sworn to keep from harm a long, long time ago, and yet it was the foreignness that filled him up the most. He didn't belong here. He was meant to be out there, in the dark. Fighting. Dying for each and everyone of them. For their sakes, just like the literal equivalent of the knight in shining armour ought to.

He flinched when a small glass was put down right in front of him. It seemed like today he was caught up in thoughts and daydreams a lot.

"Your drink," she said.

John nodded, taking the glass in hand, examining the liquid with half-hearted interest as the added iced water had not quite diluted the drink yet, and emerald transformed into a lighter shade of green.

"I'm Sally, by the way."

Just now he realised that the barmaid, _Sally_ , was still standing in front of him behind the counter, but he also quickly understood why. There was currently no one else sitting at the bar. It was yet too early for the Criterion to be overflowing with guests, even if there was a respectable number of people sitting around tables and on benches around the pub, filling the space in between the building's walls with noise and life.

Stuck behind the counter she had to be obviously bored then, or at least glad that the only one she had to worry about was still sober and not as weird as some blokes had the tendency to be. She was still stretching out her arm, and waited for John to offer her his name as well. He could be considered more than a little dreamy today, he supposed, but at least he did manage to take her hand before it became awkwardly tense between them.

"Dr John Watson," he said, not really knowing why he found it necessary to mention the medical aspect of his life. Although, it did make him feel a little more like a person again. It was the part of him that they had not taken away from him yet. Even though he was not practising anymore.

"Oh, a doctor?" she playfully asked, and John recognised that kind of tone. A bit puzzled by his own behaviour, he noticed that only about now he was starting to look at Sally as a woman and, as such, as a potential opportunity to flirt. And who knew where this evening would lead to yet?

Just as he opened his mouth to respond in kind, he heard someone repeating his name behind his back. Not in a failed attempt to passing it on to a friend through whispering voices or wondering out loud under their breaths, but directed at him personally instead.

"John?"

He immediately forgot about the temptation which with Sally had distracted his sharp instincts only seconds ago as he took in the suspiciously familiar voice. Of course, he reacted to his own name by default, but he knew that a name as common as _John_ could easily belong to anyone. A name they gave people whose names they didn't know, the John Doe's. So was he really called upon? Why would he be known in a place like this? It was just a dirty pub and no one was supposed to know him here.

But any kind of suspicion was put aside and got replaced by an unexpected thrill of delight at the realisation of knowing someone. Finally, _finally_ knowing someone!

"John Watson!"

He could not believe his own eyes, at first, as he turned around on his stool and found himself even more surprised by how naturally he stood up and gave his old friend a smile. Apparently, he smiled. At least it felt like that was what he did. As soon as he knew what he was doing, his expression changed to one that must have looked confused to his opponent, for he was trying to explain himself now.

"Stamford, Mike Stamford."

"Yes, sorry, yes, Stamford. Hello," John cut him off, and shook Mike's offered hand instead. _The second one tonight_. But compared to Sally, Mike's handshake was a lot more lax. He gave him a quick once-over, maybe a bit too conspicuously, and wondered why he had not noticed him sooner. Stamford had certainly … gotten a little larger – nicely put – but his prominent features and appearance had stayed the same.

He was wearing a grey waistcoat that barely fit around his front, a dark red tie that lay on top of white linen, but disappeared beneath the waistcoat. His coat was dark green with silver buttons on each side, and he was wearing a hat with thick glasses above the brim that looked like they had better use protecting one's eyes from melting rather than to improve ones vision. (Apart from the fact that he was already wearing glasses.) Even now, when he gave him one of those smiles where the one corner of his mouth did not even seem to move and the other one turned up gleefully, he thought he would recognise him everywhere. Unfortunately, John was not the best of actors and his mimic gave him away quickly, so the reason of Mike's crooked smile was John himself.

"Yes, I know," he chuckled warmly, "I got fat."

"No!"  _Yes_. John really tried to sound convincing, but Mike did not appear offended in the slightest.

"So I have heard you took off somewhere, defending Queen and Country."

_Again, not quite._

"What happened?"

And how John ached to say it. To tell this story to somebody, to get at least a grain of dust lifted off his chest. But he couldn't. Even if it would just be the two of them in this pub. He couldn't. But that didn't mean that he was not aching to say it.

_I got bit._

"I got shot," he heard himself say instead. A lie he would have to live with at the moment.

 

Of course Sally had left him, or them, alone as soon as they settled further into the back of the pub, near the window. (Although, he was sure she had listened with slight interest to the first part of their reunion.) John had finished his Absinthe already, and they were both drinking Porters now, sitting opposite each other as the sun was going down outside.

As John told him a bit about what it was like being a knight, and obviously left out the part where he had to fight blood sucking monsters on a daily basis, he had to admit that it was actually quite pleasant to have an old friend around. Someone who didn't know him. Someone who probably still saw the _old_ John Watson, the one with a great perspective and a future that did not look like a tedious tragedy. Someone who still enjoyed living a young life, who knew so little of the world out there. John really wished he could see that, too, could feel like that again and be naive and young. But most unfortunately, he knew he was not _the_ John Watson anymore.

His glass was empty by the time their conversation came to an end. It had gotten quieter around them as well, so it had to be his last drink for tonight. He could easily accept that, he had had his distraction and even a little bit of unexpected company. But he figured that Mike would want to go home soon, since he had to have a family to take care of, hadn't he?

So John considered their conversation to be drained out by a bit of smalltalk and old times so much that when Mike was asking another question he was surprised by how little he had been prepared for it.

"So where are you working these days?"

Yes, he had almost forgotten about it. He did not work, but he would have to. And working in a place where he could not shoot a weapon, could not help up a fallen brother or sister, could not spot where death was lingering around the corner – that was also not what _the_ John Watson would have wanted for him. However mad that had to sound.

John caught himself almost about to give a laugh at his question at last. "Working? Come on, I just moved back here. And look at me. Who would want me for an employee?"

It was yet another surprise then, as the infamous half smile striked again.

 

***

 

John had never thought of himself as a contradictory being. Some had called him that, in the past, always a little taken aback by his choice to become a trained healer as well as a trained killer. There weren't many who chose this path, to treat the wounds inflicted by those who were sent right back to hell with one and the same hand. But John had never seen a problem in that. He was good at it. At soothing and giving reassuring smiles to those on his side, and not having more than a bland glance to spare for the ones on the other as he put bullet after bullet into their cold-blooded flesh with steady fingers pulling the trigger.

There had been a time where he would feel made for this. Being this man who was living his life on the battlefield, with nothing more than a pure survival instinct, a completion of their battle plans and the oath that he had sworn.

Faithful in Adversity. _Faithful in War._

What an irony it was then, that this secret war they were fighting behind the walls of London was solely advantageous for the men and women the Order sacrificed knight after knight for, who died in cold blood. After all, the economy always benefited from a long, good war. And while some went into battle, others were more interested in the technological improvements that it caused. Especially since they were living in a time that had already been forwardly given the title _The_ _Industrial Revolution,_ and now seemingly everyone was interested in the advances of scientists and tinkerers.

It was exciting, really, to know that, of all the ideas and creations that had only existed as drolly fantasies which the previous generation would probably have greeted with mocking smiles until now, technically every single one of those fantasies could be turned into a tangible possibility by tomorrow. Who would have thought of a vehicle, for instance, with the ability to drive entirely without the force of a third power but through its own power instead?

John, if more or less involuntarily, had always had the privilege to enjoy both sides. Not so much the steam engines or inventions that drew the attention of excited crowds and journalists, but rather the little things in life. Like new models of wooden rifles, refined through magnifying scopes and golden cogs that reminded him of clockwork, transforming the weapon into more than just a deadly threat, letting him aim from hundreds of metres away, and firing off load after load of silver deaths that shattered through everything that dared to lay in their path.

Some of the knights in his unit did even build their weapons themselves. John had been fascinated, back then, by the backgrounds and the varieties of all the men and women who had fought alongside him and had more than once asked himself what had brought them all together. They were not allowed to discuss their pasts, of course, but even as a Knight Captain, giving his instructions and dominating his unit in battle, he still found himself wondering at times. He knew that this had, and would probably always be, a problem of his. The more you knew about a person, the more attached you would eventually become. And attachment, he had learned, was always a bad idea in the life he was leading.

It would always start so innocently. From the moment you caught yourself laughing off the inner tension and sharing it with someone else, exchanging honest smiles more and more often, so that you could actually feel it through the slight aching in the corners of your mouth, because these muscles had been out of use for so long. Also, the soft, lively fondness that gleamed in their eyes, should you only caught their glances at the right time, and both of you would know. This was special, this was irreplaceable. A moment never found anywhere else in the world.

But comrades did not just slowly fade away, no. They died within a heartbeat. Within the next second right after you swore to yourself you wouldn't take your eyes off them, you would have their back, but when you turn around they would be gone. Ripped apart, sometimes disfigured in ways that could make stomachs turn, by claws and teeth. It didn't matter then, that you didn't know their story, their background. It hurt, and should you learn about them afterwards from families and friends at their funeral or from letters that spoke of tragic loss, it only ever fed the pain further.

John didn't even want to think about what it must have felt like to him. What his Knight Commander (Major, _friend_ ) must have felt in the one moment, the first second when the feeling would sink in, to the latest when he finally realised that it was too late for him. The moment Sholto had found him bleeding out on the dirty ground. He didn't want to think about the sight that at other occasions he would have craved, treasured. The sight of the mask shattering, desperation clinging to his voice as he yelled out and shot at the monster that did this to him.

 

_Watson!_

 

… _Watson._

 

… … _Watson?_

 

„Dr Watson?“

John woke up nearly gasping out loud from the aftershocks of his dream. He couldn't remember what had happened to him, but apparently he had been on the edge of being sent right into the lands of cruel nightmares. He never noticed how his body reacted to those scenarios, not until he took in his surroundings – the blanket suddenly abandoned on the floor, or his own position on the bed suddenly being horizontal rather than vertical. Sometimes, he would wake up with scratches on his arms or torso.

This time, though, he only seemed to have scared his receptionist a little.

Sarah was quite a beautiful young woman. Her russet hair was tucked back and crowned above her head voluminously today, secured by a braided bun. It fell slowly out of its coifurre and was just a tiny bit tousled, indicated by a few strands that were out of place and dancing around her lovely face. It was a more than agreeable sight to wake up to. Although, she did look a bit uneasy.

„Dr Watson? You fell asleep?“ She gave a disbelieving laugh, and then immediately looked apologetic, as if she wasn't sure what she might get through with and what not, in her position. John and her got to know each other briefly during the last few weeks now, but they had not really had the time to talk to each other properly yet.

John always made sure he was out of the clinic as soon as possible after his shift was over. Not that he didn't like the job. He was very grateful that Stamford had presented this offer to him (because, frankly, work and distraction was a far better option than simply rusting away in his petty flat), although that did not mean he could stand the sight for long. Treating patients again – actual human beings with a simple daily routine! It felt ... not bad at first. As though he was needed. Had a purpose somewhere. But after a few days already, he was feeling sicker and sicker, the more time he would spend within the walls of this doctor's office and had to pretend he was only one of them. It felt like he was slowly losing himself within the work that was only meant to fill an unrelenting gap.

"Yes," John finally managed, his mouth felt as if he had choked on dust before falling asleep. "Yes, I did, sorry."

Sarah gave him a smile full of sympathy, and he was tempted enough to buy it. Even though their interactions had been reduced to a minimum, there was something he quite liked about her. She was disciplined and kind to even the most obnoxious of patients, would never lose her temper and followed orders excellently. There simply was no way she could not be aware of her own potential to be much more than most people would acknowledge. However, to be _more_ was the kind of decision that was beyond her powers, and she had no actual say in this. That was the world in which they were forced to live in.

"Are there a lot of people waiting?" he asked, getting up from his chair, for his back was already complaining, and stretched his arms to loosen his stiff muscles and activate the blood circulation in his body.

"No," she said, pretending to adjust how her long light dress where it fell around her legs, and then cleared her throat. "Only one left. A young woman. Something about her foot. Sprained ankle, probably. Not that I checked further. Only a foolish assumption."

John smiled at her in a way that he hoped did not come off as too pitiful while he was going for compassionate. They both knew she was pretending to be far below her obvious level of potential, hiding herself in humbleness. That she had already observed the injury was remarkable, even though she immediately tried to backpedal. It was one of these moments when he felt true repulsion against society's standards in this city.

They were living in a changing age where, in theory, everyone could jump at their chance to contribute and do something major, and yet it was still predetermined what a person could and could not do, depending of how and where they were born. And thus, automatically taking from them all of the important decisions of their own lives. With Sarah, they had lost a real benefactor in the medical department – she was hardworking, eager and interested, but now she would never even be given a chance. John had no doubt she would have made a great doctor. Somewhere, in another lifetime.

"Come on, you shall not put yourself down now. No one should be ashamed for being educated. You're doing great, Ms Sawyer," he said, standing up from where he had dozed only minutes ago and gave her an encouraging smile. She blinked at him and then quickly looked away, clearly a little taken aback by his flattery.

John tried to suppress the internal grin threatening to sneak onto his face. It wouldn't have been fair to her. He knew that she liked him, too, but she would be, just as her other possible carreer goals, something for another lifetime.

"Thank you, Dr Watson. I'm going to send the patient in now." With this, she retreated.

John assumed he had approximately forty seconds to straighten his clothes and adjust his tie. The end of the smooth, ruby red cotton got tucked into the small space between the white linen shirt and the dark waistcoat. Its buttons stretched diagonally along its surface, keeping the tight piece in place whenever he moved. The black trousers, thin, lengthways stripes in light grey running down on them, offered only an effect of contrast to his white doctor's coat, which was probably the one detail of his apparel that gave his occupation away the most, directly followed by the stethoscope that was hanging loosely around his neck.

The door to his office opened again, and Sarah showed in a blonde lady with a limp before bowing her head and closing the door behind her again. The woman took off her black, round hat, probably out of politeness. The hair underneath was unconventionally short and almost strikingly more yellow than it was blonde, not one hair looking out of place where they had been formed into wavy curls. She wrapped herself into an aura of eye-catching confidence which immediately struck John's interest. For an injured woman she carried an appearance of uncommonly high self-esteem, and he was instantly fascinated by her.

Clearing his throat, he remembered to bid her welcome, and he quickly crossed the room to offer a hand. She mirrored him and stepped forward. Her long, bordeaux red coat swirled around her legs and seemed to fill in for a proper attire, as there was no sign of an actual dress underneath. She took his hand and held it firmly. He felt patterned lace within his palm, and he shook her gloved hand once before letting go. Her big, blue eyes were fixated on his own.

"Dr John Watson," he introduced himself.

"Ms Mary Morstan."

After their introductions, John bid her to sit down on the couch, the injury on her foot already obvious to him, now that he had seen the woman walk. Mary Morstan complied, and he caught her round pair of eyes roaming down his body before she stepped around the doctor's couch and seated herself. Relief washed over her features as the weight was taken off her leg.

John rolled up his sleeves to put on a pair of rubber gloves. He stepped in front of her and glanced down at what she was wearing. "Would you mind taking off your shoes and coat, Ms Morstan?"

She complied again, reaching down to open the laces of her polished boots and taking off the socks beneath. When she got up, she had to be concentrating on putting most of her weight on her healthy foot. Now that she was barefoot, she was slightly shorter than John himself, which he noticed as they were standing opposite each other. He felt weird watching her unbuttoning her coat, but her gaze on him was intensely focused. Almost as if she was challenging him to look at her with the same interest that she herself was channelling through only her eyes.

John had a hard time trying not to knit his brows or show confusion in any way. He wanted to apply to his professionalism here, and as a competent doctor one should not be confused by their patient. By the time she had shrugged of the red coat, it was finally revealed what she was wearing underneath. And it wasn't a lot.

It was a black, short dress that looked more appropriate for a very private usage behind closed curtains than for walking around in public. Its material appeared, like all of her clothes, to be rather expensive. Something like silk wandered all the way around her waist, finely decorated with black and white parts of lace around the décolleté, white ribbons in between her breasts and around the place where he believed her hipbones to be. The lower part of the dress was like a black tutu, and white feathers gave the piece its final touch.

He had to have been staring now, because Mary chuckled lightly before she sat down again. "I am a dancer." She seemed to have sensed his unspoken bewilderment, but luckily she did not take it as an offence.

"Oh!" he only heard himself say. _She must've come right from a dance then,_ he thought to himself, but didn't ask for a more detailed explanation, as he felt that it was neither of his concern, nor of his business.

"But you will be alright if I just..." John more or less indicated what he was trying to say, and she chuckled again.

"I trust in your intentions to be of exclusively medical and professional nature, Dr Watson."

Thus, he nodded once (more directed to himself as a note to pull himself together) and got to his knees to inspect the injury. It didn't take long to examine and determine what and how it would have to be treated. Focused on the foot beneath his hands, he began to explain his findings out loud.

"Yes. Sprained ankle. Thought so. A very common type of sprain, inversion. It's a good thing you had the sense to come here so quickly. The foot is a little swelled already. Probably causes pain along the outer side of the ankle. That's why it must hurt you to stand on it. It doesn't strike me to be all too bad an injury, however."

While he had inspected the lady's ankle with solemn focus, Mary had not taken his eyes off him, clearly interested in what he was doing and how he obtained all the information to tell her what she couldn't see. "So I will be able to dance again?"

"Oh, in no time, if you're lucky enough!" He looked up to her almost instinctively. John had always liked carrying good news to his patients. Opportunities which were far too rare and precious in their quantity for him.

"Really?" she asked, baffled.

"Well, of course not immediately. The most important factor for the healing process is rest and protection. As little walking as possible to limit the weight bearing. But I think I might still apply a compression, just to control the swelling." He got up and walked towards one of the cupboards where he kept medical bags and bandages.

"You know, Dr Watson. Men like you would be very much needed at the place I work at. You are quite quick."

_The place she works at? Is she referring to a role as a dancer, or rather someone to take care of who exactly stepped in and out of the said working place?_

Both did not make any sense at all in his head, for she was not supposed to have a single clue about the other aspects of his former career.

"Do you have any other abilities?" she asked with a hint of keen amusement in her voice as he came back with the bandages.

"Well, I was a knight, actually." He had no idea why he was telling her this. This was not something to show off with.

"Even better! You would not believe what kind of strange people come in and go out way later than preferable sometimes."

John huffed a quiet laugh at this. _Oh, I can imagine._

Usually, he tried not to leap to incomplete conclusions about another person he barely knew, especially not if it was on the grounds of prejudices. He knew he was no one to judge. Neither did the men who enjoyed spending their time with dancing strangers who were in possession of so much more, swinging hips and seducing through looks and promises in low lit facilities. Nor the women who chose to position themselves as irresistible threats and earned their keep by selling what God had provided them with.  
  
In his youth he might or might not have found himself within the walls of such a building on occasions, throwing the little money he had around, craving for the company of a faceless temptation. And even though he was no one to judge, he could still see himself tangled in a yarn of prejudging thoughts that was almost impossible to disentangle, in spite of what he did not want for himself to admit.

So to think of Mary, the pretty dancer, as someone who used her body and swayed it for strange men who smelled like cheap wine, (or worse: expensive perfume, speaking of wealth and the incapacity to be anything near a gentleman whatsoever) was not an image that appealed to him. Should it have existed in the first place, which he secretly knew it had, the respect and attraction he had felt towards her suffered from this immensely.

"Are you bored?"

"Sorry?" John didn't understand her question. It seemed so fragile and out of place here. Suddenly, he felt a hint of self-consciousness touching a place around his heart like a soft breeze. He had not experienced it in a longer while now. This feeling of genuine _care_.  
  
He couldn't grasp why, but he did not want to look bored to her. It was less about her, as a woman he had only just met and who was his patient and he her doctor. It could rather be, for the first time in weeks and weeks now, about _awareness_. Awareness of what he was becoming. (Had already become?) A careless, empty soul floating around in a never resting capital. It felt like exclusion. Department from a world he had once lived in.  
  
Quickly, he tried to put on a half-hearted smile, snapped his eyes up at her face and then down again to concentrate on his task. When his eyes were travelling down, they did so hastily. Mary's dress was still short and he was still on his knees.  
  
"You look bored," she said, apparently in no hurry to explain further.

 _Alright_ , he thought. He was ready to play this game then.  
  
"With you? Oh, no. Sorry, this is the face I'm making whenever I concentrate," he murmured, pretending to be twice as captivated by rolling the bandages around her ankle and heel than he actually was. It was a task he had done a thousand times, could probably carry out in his sleep, and he raised his voice a little. "I tried a different face once, but it turns out people can get a bit frightened when I'm smiling all over while treating their flesh wounds, so I-"  
  
Mary interrupted him with a sudden laugh to which John, to his own surprise, quietly joined in, "-sort of sticked with this," he finished.  
  
By the time Mary had brought her soft flow of giggles under control, she looked down at him almost fondly. But there was just a freckle of impudence within her innocent features, always a hint of cool ice around those irises, safely hidden away behind invisible bars that were indicated by laugh lines and wrinkles around eyes and mouth.  
  
"No, that is not what I meant, silly."  
  
She, especially as a lady, should never have dared to address a man with such slander and such boldness. Mary Morstan, however, did not appear to care much about what people thought. The remorse she showed through the hands that immediately flew to her mouth, as if to hold her tongue in the literal sense, was obviously an act. He could see it in her eyes. "I'm sorry, I meant _doctor_."  
  
John looked up at her, suppressing the urge to draw his brows together in confusion, and finished securing the bandage around her foot blindly while he held the other hand out to her. "Sometimes I just go by John. Nice to meet you."  
  
Her giggles filled the room again before she took the offered hand. She didn't seem reluctant in the slightest to sit here in her short dress and let John talk and look at her from in between her legs while treating her injured ankle while they were … were they flirting with each other?  
  
"Mary. Well, now that we even go by Christian names … Please let me tell you how bored you look. Here." She was emphasising her statement by moving her hand around, meaning _here_ , in this very environment.  
  
When John was finished, he got up to put back the utilities, and he intended to do so slowly, so he could keep his back turned to her. Innocent flirtation drifted down the road of something that made him feel examined and dismantled in a way he passionately hated, in a way that made his skin boil with ill-advised anger underneath.  
  
He could hear Mary putting her shoes back on while he was opening and closing various drawers to kill time, and this topic that hung in the air between them.  
  
"You're not someone who could work here for the rest of his life."  
  
"And how would you know that?" he asked and at the same time challenged her, as he turned around to face her again.  
  
"I have a very good sense for human nature, Dr Watson. John. We could truly use someone with your abilities. You would be an extraordinary benefactor."  
  
Mary walked towards him with one knee buckling, and her dark red coat was hanging around her shoulders like the wings of a blood-soaked, sleeping bird. (But wouldn't it be dead if it was blood-soaked? Maybe it was rather the trophy of having stolen those wings with bare hands that was covering her white skin proudly now.)  
  
"A doctor and a knight? You are a treasure, John, and you will waste your life and regret it everyday anew if you don't consider this. Apply for the job I am offering."  
  
John gave a disbelieving laugh. A _treasure_? A treasure was usually something that shined and appealed in form and value. John Watson did neither appeal, nor did he shine. He was a broken man, overshadowed only by his former self – a state he would never be able to reach again. At least when one was to ask John Watson.

"Excuse me? I don't even know where you are working, nor do I know you, Ms Mary Morstan." He used her full name like he was using the incredulous smile on his face. The idea that she was seeing something else in him – something beyond the simple utility of a doctor with two capable hands, something with the kind of - what, value? – that she went so far as to offer him a job?

 _Hah!,_ he thought. Leaving aside the fact that he had only just gotten a new job, _that_ very idea was so staggering and ludicrous to him that he just couldn't buy it.

So for not having to explain all of this, plus confusion and insecurities that were swirling and cycling, hammering against the inner walls of his head and slowly giving him a headache, he simply said, "But, you see, I am employed already."

Mary stepped right into his personal space, her act replaced by a presence of sheer and frightening severity that made John almost back away. She walked on high heels again, so she surpassed him in height, and her blue eyes were now more akin to a hawk focusing on its pray than that of an innocent porcelain doll with which he would have compared her before.

"Substitutable." She was coming closer.

 _Mary, Mary, quite contrary_ , was a thought that crossed his mind, and maybe he should be more worried or averse to the way she looked at him. But instead he felt a thrill rush through his bones. He wanted to hear her out at all costs. So he swallowed and waited for her to go on.

"Here, this is what you are. Substitutable."

She stepped closer still and laid out her hand, palm upwards, in front of him, meaning for him to take it. A soft smile graced her features again and blew away the cold air between them, but never the tension. "Would you be so kind as to escort me back to my workplace, _Doctor_ Watson? After all, it was yourself who advised me to rest my leg, did you not?"

He eyed the hand in front of him with suspicion and hesitance. And yet again, he did not back away. "I am not going to carry you, _Miss_ Morstan. I am still a doctor, _after all_."

"Supporting me will just be enough, thank you," she said as she placed her arm on his good shoulder.

 

As it turned out, Ms Mary Morstan was pure madness.

 


	2. The Curtain Rises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In following Mary, John ends up in a curious place with a bunch of even more curious and lively people. As it turns out _The Professor_ has the potential to give John exactly what he didn't know he needed but now finds himself hoping and craving for.

It felt strangely inappropriate to walk side by side like this with Mary. John had shrugged off his white coat before she had initiated their positions herself as she placed her hand around his shoulder, and when she almost tripped, John caught her by tightening his grip around her waist. They walked out of the clinic like this and he did not even dare to look back at Sarah Sawyer, knowing her look of confusion and disappointment would make him reconsider. But that had to mean undoubtedly that he didn't want to reconsider.

John felt _thrilled_ just by going out on the streets of London. His routine was broken and soon something would happen. At this moment, that was all he had to know. It should scare him more to be at such a loss, so out of control, and the absence of greater fear did not mean he trusted Mary. She painted a torn picture of herself. She was demanding and captivating, but right now, the only thing he could feel for the figure in his arms was compunction. He didn't want to look like he was claiming her, because he was not planning to do so. For him to touch her and be so close to her while she hobbled along the pavement had to look like they was something else in between them than empty space, and like they knew each other longer than half an hour.

_Half an hour?_

What was he even doing here? Following a strange women he only knew for so little an amount of time – _half an hour!_ \- to some place unknown?

She was the personalised demonstration of how desperate John was. To be working again was in no way a recipe for being fine. He was still lonely, he was still depressed.

And my God, was he _bored_.

It did not take long for them to hire a cab, and barely a quarter of an hour had passed by the time the horses came to a halt. John helped her out of the hansom and they readjusted to their previous positions. As soon as John had made sure Mary would not simply fall over should her foot gave in, he finally took in his surroundings. (In all modesty, this was more of the doctor in him speaking than the gentleman.)

They were standing on the footpath of a main street and the cab took off. The building in front of them had a red brown stone fa _ç_ ade and black framed sash windows. It towered upwards for about three or four floors and was roofed with dark grey slate. Right above the broad, wooden transom there was a dark green sign, labelled with golden letters that read _The Professor._

John frowned at this. From the outside, this place did not look like he thought it would. Also, the location seemed far too public for a premise that hid away the sin and obscenity that he had originally imagined to be concealed behind those walls. He wanted to look through the windows to have more of a clue of what would be awaiting him on the inside, but the curtains were drawn. Again, he felt a twinge of guilt for having judged Mary based on so little words with which she had revealed parts of herself, and only now it occurred to him that he maybe should have asked what kind of dancing she was actually practising.

"We're not open this early," she explained, as she probably mistook his look of self-blame for confusion.

She started to walk again, clearly intending to go through the front door. "Come on," said she, and John, more or less voluntarily, had to follow. "Let's go in."

They were walking up to the door, but stopped right in front of it. From this close, John noticed that there was more to the colourful pattern in the stained-glass of the door than met the eye at first. It appeared to be a pair of tigers with their tails up in the air and their heads held up high and proud. They reminded him of the mocking version of what might be found in a church window, as this did not serve as a representation of some religious legends but rather of the nature or fondness of the owner himself.

Mary's knuckles knocked at this very window a few times. For a brief moment John almost considered it to be morse, but as his brain tried to translate what the knocks and pauses could mean, it did not make much sense, and he figured there could be another enigma to it. Or none whatsoever, for that matter. Barely half a minute later someone could be heard from the other side and they unlocked the door before opening it.

The elderly lady that was awaiting them behind the transom was wearing a smile that felt so refreshing to John as he realised that he had not seen an expression so pure and genuine in quite a while now. It made him want to instantly smile back at her, and the rare feeling on his face appeared to be almost odd and foreign.

The purple dress she was wearing clung to her waist and blew up on its way downwards, the fabric quill and silken, which made it look too much like evening attire for this time of day, and her neck and ears were adorned with black jewel that complemented each other and accentuated her green brown eyes. Although the bit of make up on her face could not conceal the laugh lines and wrinkles, they told stories of kindness and love.  
  
John liked that smile in an instant, which was remarkable considering his history and difficulty to trust other people.  
  
"Oh! Mary, hello! I wouldn't have expected you to be back so soon. Everything turned out fine, then?"  
  
Only now the lady seemed to notice John at all, and she slowly took in the picture of them, standing closely and clinging to each other. "And who is this young man you brought with you?"  
  
Mary crooked a smile and looked at John again as she started to introduce them to each other. "This is Dr John Watson, the man with the magical hands. He fixed me next to no time." When she finally looked at the lady again, John noticed that she was watching the two of them with interest. Mary's behaviour did not leave as much room for interpretations as it should have.  
  
"I'm sure my hands are just as capable as that of any other doctor," John quietly said, a bit uncomfortable with her kind of praise that always seemed exaggerated.  
  
"And always so modest … John, this is Mrs Hudson, and this place would certainly fall without her. And don't you think of using modesty, too, Mrs Hudson!"  
  
"I wasn't going to," Mrs Hudson chuckled and took a few steps aside for them to walk past her. If she was wondering about why Mary would call her doctor by his Christian name, she didn't say so.

"Pleasure," he said, and tried to make the smile match the one that she had not seen just when he had looked at her for the first time. He thought it was only fair that she should see it now.

Her eyes spoke of surprise now and she looked like she was going to say something, but decided to let it go at the last second.  
  


She led them through a hallway that appeared to be too narrow, judging from the size of the house and how John had perceived it from the outside. It left him with a sobering impression when they walked through it. The wallpaper was peeling itself off and started bilging as evidence for all the years that had passed since its first decoration. On the side of the wall that did not lead around the corner, the left one, was a bay window with a black frame and its glass was overlaid with so thick a layer of dirt and dust that its colour had turned into a yolk-like orange and it had become impossible to look through. It provided the entrance with a very certain atmosphere that John still could not quite pinpoint.

Opposite him, there was a rather modern looking reception desk and a cupboard – unoccupied and acknowledged only by a single table lamp on top of it. He walked past a framed painting of a landscape of sorts; a waterfall if John was not mistaken. There were also two plants hanging from the ceiling for some reason, but at least they did not look as dead as the rest of the hall.

 _Atmosphere,_ he thought.

He was dragged out of his thoughts a little when Mary started speaking again, right next to his ear. He had almost forgotten her, however odd that was, for he was carrying half of her weight.

"You should see her dance," she said with a grin that protruded into her tone of voice. "Overshadowing us all."

Mrs Hudson gave a firm _tsk_ at this. "Oh. Maybe some thirty years ago. But these days, ay me! You know how my hip is always troubling me. Yes, these days dancing would only be a rather dreadful hobby."

John knew what she meant. Her words got to him on a level he had yet believed to have buried, but that he could now hear and see, loud and clear in front of him. The way she spoke of days where she had been able to come alive, now being blocked by an undying injury that just added to the category of bodily betrayal. So to speak, on the physical side alone, his shoulder was also troubled. It was the weather around this time of year.

When they rounded the corner and Mrs Hudson opened another door for them, John could feel a wave of astonishment rushing over him and there was something swelling in his chest at the excitement and delighted surprise.  
  
It was fairly dark inside at first, and when John's eyes got used to the darkness, he felt almost slain by the high ceiling and the huge space that was greeting them in dim light. The building looked as classic from the inside as it did from the outside. The floor was dark wood and some of the floorboards sighed or grunted beneath the weight of their feet. The saloon was furnished almost exclusively with round tables and chairs. Some of the tables had flowers on them that were clearly artificial or dead, as they were painted golden, others were decorated by burned down candles, while some were completely empty.

The room stretched itself more horizontally than quarterly, and at the very end of it there was a stage with two emerald curtains on each side. There was a handrail, and therefore a second floor, but it was too dark to see if it lead anywhere.

Mrs Hudson seemed to have noticed how John was taking in his environment and she was looking at him tenderly. "Quite impressive, is it not?"

John only nodded somewhat absentmindely and then reminded himself that it was impolite not to reply to a question, even if this question was rhetorical, and therefore held its own answer within.

"Certainly."

Only on second glance he saw that there were not just the three of them in here.

Women were standing on the stage, three in number, all dressed in short dresses that reminded him of what he had seen Mary wear earlier before she hid it away again underneath her woollen coat. They were all exceptionally pretty, but only when he looked at them separately, he could make out their differences, suggesting his brain was so easily fooled if a group of women was dressed alike and had pretty faces.  
  
As they walked along the side where all the tables were placed and came closer to the stage, John could finally make out what they were saying, or rather, snapping at each other.  
  
"Damn it, Tessa, it's always the same with you! Why can you not do it as agreed for once?"

The one snapping would be redheaded with a long nose and pink lips. Her hair was pinned-up into a queue of false curls and a fringe lingered above blue eyes that were rimmed with smeared eye-liner.

The girl that was being accused of incompetence was taller than her, but easily could have been two heads shorter, for she was standing there like insecurity and shame personified. Her hair was almost as black as a raven, also pinned-up and her fringe fell over her forehead in a row of corkscrew curls.

Her voice – Tessa, as the redhead had called her – was fitting the appearance of the lady _just so._ "I-I'm sorry, Kitty, but Mary's part is something we have never rehearsed before. You do not always have to be so impatient with us."  
  
"No, I am impatient with you specifically, and- oh, you still look so tense at all times! Swing your hips a little more, or do look like you would actually like being here! Jane manages it, too, frankly, it cannot be that difficult!"  
  
"Oi, calm down, Kitty. She is doing the best she, we all are." The third woman had to be Jane, then. She was the tallest of them and had, to John's own subjective opinion, the most attractive features. Tall, big eyes, and the dark hair, which was openly running down the back of her neck and shoulders, displayed a stark contrast to her snow white skin.  
  
Kitty spoke again. "Well, then her best is just not good enough. You, of all people, know very well what will happen if-“ But then she held her tongue.  
  
_If what?_

A spark of curiosity lit up within John, made him raise his head higher in the attempt to listen if he had maybe missed the end of the sentence due to his position that was too far out of reach to take in possible whispers. Then again, he would have to remind himself that there were things that certainly fell into the wide category of _none of his business_.

It turned out that it was Mary, or rather the realisation of having visitors, that had provided Kitty with a sense of self-awareness, and she stepped back and changed her threatening posture into one more similar to self-defence. When their eyes turned to Mary, they seemed to brighten instantly.

"My, my, one leaves you alone for about an hour..." Mary greeted them mockingly and her lips curved into a grin. She visibly enjoyed their delighted expressions as they looked down at them.

  
"Mary!" The girls shouted out simultaneously, and especially Jane seemed exceedingly relieved. No one could blame her. She was the one who had probably suffered the most from being alone with _Redheaded Prude_ and _Shy Incompetence._ "Thank God," she murmured.  
  
"Please tell me you can dance," Kitty bursted out, but disappointment and frustration took over her face and she let out a huge sigh when Mary shook her head.  
  
"I'm afraid I cannot. Doctor's orders."  
  
They all turned their heads and they, too, like Mrs. Hudson, now appeared to see John for the first time since they arrived. Surely, he could not be _that_ invisible, could he? They all exchanged crinkly to apathetic looking smiles, but out of all Tessa's was the sweetest and the only one that John could believe.

  
Immediately after all forced courtesies had been done with, Kitty did not hesitate to voice another complaint. "Oh God, he is not going to be amused at all. And why now, with Irene missing also … How could this happen to us?"

Jane followed Kitty from where she was walking up and down the stage, clearly nervous and without destination, just walking to keep her uneasy limps at bay. What could it be that had her so frightened and upset? John could not help but feel suspicion settle in over the whole matter.

"Come on, Kitty," Jane soothed her, "It is all going to be fine. He won't rip off our skin for this series of unfortunate events. None of this is our fault."

"Oh, isn't it?" She snapped, her voice almost a shriek that hurt the ears of those too close. "If I recall correctly, it was Tessa who made Mary lose her balance, was it not?" Now looking at Tessa with vengeance.

"Now, stop blaming her!" Jane countered, clearly losing her patience with Kitty.

A loud clap set the room into a scene of silence, and finally everyone was listening to the party John would consider the most reasonable to listen to at the moment.

The heels of Mrs Hudson's clattering shoes was the only sound to be heard for an amount of long seconds that fooled with time when she made eye contact with one of the ladies specifically. "That's enough, girls, behave! On your position, Ms Riley. Pray, all of you should only ever be on your best behaviour in here. And now, prepare, we've got guests!"

Mrs Hudson supported her orders with flying hands and distinct gestures as she walked in front of the stage, and then motioned to John and Mary that they should take one of the free seats, from with there were obviously various to choose from.

John was more than glad when the grip of the tense atmosphere in the room slowly passed away as the women each walked in a different direction behind the stage, apparently positioning themselves to get ready to begin their performance. He pulled back a chair for Mary and helped her to ease down onto it, to which she responded with a thankful smile. John had picked the table without a second thought, and it was one relatively close to the stage still, but far enough to the middle of the room that they wouldn't have to witness their incensed or disgruntled glances towards each other, presumed they should not be good enough to act that away for the benefit of the show.

Even though John had technically not even picked their seating, it turned out they sat at the only table with a newspaper on top of it, and no further decoration. But when the lights on the stage went out, and the curtains he had not seen closing parted again, he was too intrigued by the events in front of him to see anything else for a while.

Jane was the first one to step out and a spotlight and a quiet melody accompanied and followed her steps. Only now did John notice that the strumming music was actually Mrs Hudson playing the piano in the back of the stage. So he asked, "She plays the piano?"

"Oh, yes," Mary explained, seeming as equally fascinated by the way John was tracing the events in front of him with roaming eyes as John was by what he was seeing. "Her ex-husband taught her. If nothing else, he was a brilliant musician at least, as far as I have heard."

"Ex?" John asked, his gaze not leaving Jane's long legs as they turned and performed motions he had never seen before, had never known could be considered as _dancing,_ and when Tessa appeared, they only complemented each others moves so gorgeously that his only critique could have been that deciding where to look was too hard a choice for the casual viewer. But he remembered his good manners, eventually, and turned his head in Mary's direction. With a bit of surprise he observed that she looked very much entertained by his face rather than the actual show. In her defence, she had to have seen this a hundred times already.

"What happened?" he asked, meaning the husband and not at all the enamoured sparkling in her eyes that hinted at a trail of danger within.

"Execution," she answered plainly, and there was no way this statement could be regarded acceptable while she was looking at him all languidly and a bit joyous.

Before he could say anything about that, she changed the topic. "What do you think of them?"

"Of whom?"

"The girls – the ones performing for us." It sounded as though Mary was taking advantage of her position of power over them, which was a ludicrous thought because having a sprained ankle was not usually associated with terms of power.

"Well, I fear it's far too early for me to tell yet. They are quite good, though, are they not?" He hesitated for a second, but decided to act on his own curiosity after a while. "Say, what is it they are so scared of? Is it the employer?"

"Mr Moriarty? Oh, sometimes they tend to overdramatise matters a bit. I will admit he can be very … _changeable_ at times. But everyone has bad days, right?" She looked at him as if he simply had to understand and agree with her, but, as seemed to be a habit of hers, she did so with the confidence of someone who was so sure they had stroke a nerve with this remark. She only continued to watch him intensely.

Luckily, and to John's relief, she fixed her gaze on the stage again before she spoke up the next time. "Take Kitty, for example. Yes, she has been difficult from the start. Very petulant, and difficult to work with, I assure you. She is our newest, but dressages do normally not take as long." It was clearly meant as a joke and she herself laughed about it, but John still felt a sting somewhere below his ribs.

"But Jane you like, eh? I have seen you staring at her a little. Jane Hawkins. She is rather good, even though I cannot quite place what makes her so." A heavy sigh left her parted lips. "Oh, but I believe some of us have simply been gifted."

He gave her a tight smile, not quite knowing what to think or reply anymore when it came to this woman. He could feel himself being about to drift off to give her all those second thoughts he had not permitted himself to think earlier, just to prevent himself from simply turning around and let himself be abducted by her charms. But, yet again, she interfered.

"If you'd pardon me, Dr Watson, I believe I must go after what I have so foolishly prolonged until now. It will be just a moment, surely."

"Of course!" He proclaimed a bit too fast because, frankly, he could not wait to have some time for himself right now.

His instincts told him to help her out of the chair, but she appeared to be highly secure on foot as she walked a few metres, then turned around again. "Don't be too bored without me."

She took off and disappeared in the shadows of the hall.

Suddenly, John had lost all interest in the performance that played on stage, sobered and a little sickened by the way Mary had talked to him. It could only be strategy that awarded her with ways and means of influencing, possibly even manipulating him quietly, while at the same time she was saying less, and therefore did not provide any kind of evidence against her.

And probably worst of it all, now he could not bring himself to use the time away from her witchy charms and dismantle the wrongness of it all, as all he was craving now was a way of distraction. His gaze fell upon the paper that was lying innocently at the end of the table. _The Evening Standard._ He was already on the verge of dismissing the thought when the title page caught his attention with a headline in big bold letters that read:

 

 

**LONDON'S CLEVEREST DETECTIVE GONE MISSING**

 

_City of London – Sherlock Holmes, 33, of London, is a man well-known by the local public._

_As a private detective and investigator he solves cases of clients who come to his residence at Baker Street, regardless of whether the mystery revolves around thievery, betrayal or even murder._

_He is also known to be consulted by the police of Scotland Yard, should they require assistance, and if the case is considered far enough from 'tedious' to Holmes, they will come to an agreement about the consultation._

_It is highly unfortunate, therefore, that Mr Sherlock Holmes can not be present to investigate his own disappearance. Last seen on the late afternoon of September 15, he is now officially reported missing, and the police is already at a loss._

_"Sherlock Holmes has always been a man of very impulsive nature, often acting on a whim," said Inspector Gregory Lestrade of Scotland Yard. He worked together with Holmes on various cases in the past and is said to know him best of all the inspectors. But even to him, while mentioning Holmes's 'impulsive nature' and his penchant for the unexpected, something does strike him as 'foul', as he calls it._

_Lestrade added, "We have now classified him as a missing person, and we're currently searching, but unfortunately, this is all we have for now."_

_The Inspector's attempt is one in favour of maintaining confidence in solving this matter, although his face tells a slightly different story. A valid concern is indeed appropriate, as we all know, London is a dangerous place. If someone was to abduct a private detective, who by some voices would be termed a genius, this person would have to be just as clever as the detective himself. It is no wonder, therefore, that the local police has yet to find a clue to the curious vanishing of Mr Sherlock Holmes._

 

 

John was so absorbed in the article about the missing detective that he didn't notice, and that did say a lot about the article because he had the instincts of a soldier with paranoia, how a quiet figure slowly approached him. It pulled back the chair on which Mary had sat sheer minutes ago. Only the scraping of the chair's legs on against the floor jolted his eyes out of reading and then focused on Mrs Hudson, who was watching him with interest, yet the look in her eyes differed immensely from the ones that everyone else had given him this day. He'd almost think there was something in his face if he didn't know already that it was rather his lack of having an actual place here (and anywhere else as well) and his utter indifference about it, which was something that made it almost tragic.

"Mrs Hudson!"

"Oh, please forgive me my indiscretion. I didn't mean to startle you, my good doctor!"

"No, it's- it is all fine. I only thought … should you not be up there playing?" John made a rough gesture towards the general direction of the stage, but she already shook her head.

"They will have to do without music for now. Strengthens the group dynamics." And she gave him a wink and a wicked little grin.

They both started giggling. It should have been odder for John to feel much younger and immature while laughing along with a woman who was probably twice his age, but he did not bother with this for a second.

Her smile was the first to fade then, when she looked down at the newspaper in his hands, and he felt his fingers tightening around the edges protectively and without his consent. The headline of the article seemed to do something to her, and John would have assumed it was similar to his own reaction, but as he took in how her eyes softened and the fine smile on her lips that slightly wavered, he knew there had to be more to it.

"Dreadful business," she commented, in a tone much dryer than John would have expected.

"You knew him?"

"Well, he was on the verge of becoming a rather public figure, so I suppose most people in London did."

He had suspected as much. The article pretty much gave this bit away already, and before John could do more than wonder why he was apparently the only one to have never heard of him (and he was certain he would remember a name like that if he had), it occurred to him again that he had not been in London for years and years now. His past life in the Order as a vampyre slayer was just a matter of course to him, something obvious and plausible, whereas this new chapter of his life simply could not make it past the mental veil that was making him see through the lens of a dream. It made nothing worth happening to him and it could not bring him to care enough about anything.

Even so, he decided to give this matter one more try. "Personally, I mean. Have you ever met this..." And he hoped to get the name together correctly, "Sherlock Holmes?"

Regardless of correct pronunciation or not, it felt good on his lips, floating down his tongue as it touched the roof of his mouth, making him purse his lips. There was no way someone could own that pretty a name. He was sure he had got it wrong.

Mrs Hudson gave a quick laugh, but John could not place it. Had he truly made a mistake and she was now mocking him for it? Or did his intrigued thoughts somehow show on his face? He knew he had a very expressive face at times...

It turned out to be none of the above at all. "You could say so! I'm his landlady."

"Oh!" John noticed how she skipped back and forth between present and past tense, probably not knowing what to believe.

"So you see, Dr Watson, why I am a bit troubled these days. Although you probably don't, because you barely know me... Pardon me, I'm jabbering." She seemed a little embarrassed now, covering her eyes in her hands for a moment.

"There's no need apologising," he soothed, and then tried to encourage her to keep talking, "And I really don't mind the jabbering."

Mrs Hudson cocked her head at him as there was a question forming in her russet eyes. "You really don't, do you?"

"There is nothing else happening." The words slipped out of him before he could even think twice and he almost wanted to give himself a pinch for making it sound like he was only talking to her because there was nothing better for him to be doing.

But she seemed to see so much more than sheerly the obvious, and her expression turned almost too sympathetic for John's liking. He did never appreciate pity. Her gaze drifted off into the distance quickly, though, as she thought of the mysterious detective and continued her talk.

"It is just so difficult to imagine him gone. Not simply as with the rent, it was not much that he was paying, frankly. Not that I would have wanted more. Hardly the best of tenants, he was. The way he treated the kitchen – _oh!_ – I could go on and on … And he took off sometimes for days on end, but..."

By the time she interrupted herself and took a deep breath, John had already understood that she was a lot more emotionally invested in the matter than she was willing to admit.

"But you must have heard the stories, and you've read the paper, so this could hardly be anything new to you. Just ignore the wiggy old lady, dear," she said, trying to shrug off her visible attachment to the missing man with a laugh and a pat on John's hand.

"I have not, to be quite frank. Heard the stories, I mean. Never heard of him before."

"Oh? Ah, right, you have not been in the city for some years, wasn't that so? Yes, yes, Mary might have mentioned that as we've just met in passing"

John tried to ignore the thought of Mary talking about him behind his back and simply nodded, "Former knight captain, yes," and was meanwhile laying a hand on top of the one of Mrs Hudson's that still caressed his other. Through this method he was attempting to have the lady at ease and make her feel safe and secure. There was, after all, a possibility of her tenant not being alive anymore, and he did not want her to acknowledge this possibility as such. The poor woman had clearly gone through enough, with her husband executed… (If only he knew.)

"Tell me more about him."

"Oh, he was... he _is_ a marvel, truly. A very peculiar young man with a funny odd head, I can tell you. Always on the run, my Sherlock. I fathom that being a detective requires that bit of legwork. Ah, silly me! _Consulting_ detective, see, he would have corrected me on that already! I presume you have never heard of that, as well. No wonder, he invented the term himself. Yes, he might seem a little arrogant, a bit cold at times, but I assure you, behind the hard shell there lies a good heart. He even ensured that my tit of a husband would lose his head, in the literal sense. Oh, excuse me for the graphic details. But you are a doctor, surely you have seen worse…"

John had listened with interest, even if at times he had more trouble following her outspoken thoughts. Although, he sort of lost it as she spoke of the execution – not like Mary had, nonchalantly and almost bored – but with a delight and gratefulness that had John gaping, and he only absentmindely heard himself add, "And a knight," to her statement of him having seen worse. He certainly had seen worse, and he was convinced he had been one to cause far worse as well.

"And a knight," she repeated, lost in thought.

"So." John cleared his throat and let go of her hand. "What makes you so sure then, that he will not come back? You did say yourself that he sometimes leaves whenever he pleases. And from what you told me, he sounds just extraordinary enough to go on a longer vacation without saying a word about it."

"Hah!" Mrs Hudson laughed at that. "You are probably the first who listens to a story of Sherlock Holmes and describes him with words that are far away from calling him mad or some such rubbish. Had he known you, dear doctor, he would have seen the solid heart of a loyal fighter and one who could heal his own wounds, I am certain."

"You think he would have liked me?"

Not that it mattered now. Still, John found this question already passing by the tip of his tongue and laying itself out in between them, and now he could not back away. The answer should not be of any meaning to him, as he was most unlikely to meet this detective fellow one day; should said fellow even have one more day to live.

Suspense was building between them before Mrs Hudson had finished forming her answer and opened her mouth to speak, just as two people were appearing behind them. He already knew one of them – the lovely and appalling figure of Mary Morstan, who he still felt more torn about than anything else – the other one was unfamiliar.

 _He_ was wearing a light grey, three-piece suit, a beige tie and a light red handkerchief, which somehow served to highlight the authority that he simply inserted to the room as if he only planned to stay back and watch how his environment reacted to it. His fingers were covered by black leather gloves and in one hand he was holding a lacquered cane, also black, with the golden head of a tiger at its tip. The slicked back hair was extremely dark against his skin, and the pair of hazelnut eyes was watching him far too keenly. There was something in them that spoke of more than just confidence and John could not be sure he wanted to find out what would make something in them snap and the man _change_.

He figured that would have to be him – the changeable man, Mr Moriarty. He should not be disappointed.

"You must be the miraculous doctor then, no? Doctor Watson? Mary told me everything."

He held out a hand for him before John had gotten the hint to get up and introduce himself properly, rather than being introduced by the one he should get to know. The chair gave an uncomfortable squeak as its legs stroke the floorboards in a way far from pleasant for all parties involved, and Moriarty's grimace looked slightly pained for a few seconds. John took his hand as long as it was still being offered, and then they all stood together (Mrs Hudson had excused herself quietly and unobtrusively) a little tensely.

"James Moriarty. Pleased to meet you."

"Dr John Watson. I'm presuming you must be Ms Morstan's employer."

Moriarty showed teeth at this and his face formed an expression of amusement. "So to say, Dr Watson, so to say."

He shot a glance in Mary's direction, who was standing next to him like she would be the one showing off a price, or something to be proud of, rather than it would be expected of her. In the usual terms, she would be far more likely to be considered a price to brag with, but Ms Morstan simply would not have it.

"He is the Professor," Mary stated, a similar grin defining her features.

John felt lost between something that could be a joke not to be understood by outsiders. Or they were only mocking him. In both cases, it certainly fed their merriment.

"Uh-uh, Mary. If you'd pardon the milady's behaviour. It is, indeed, fairly impolite to joke around in an interview," he playfully rebuked her.

Again, their exchanged glanced indicated a far deeper connection between the two of them. Mary showed not one sign of remorse or even concern.

Moriarty did not seem to mind a lot. "I am the owner of everything you can see within these halls." He spread his arms, and also the cane, using it to increase the impression that it gave, to demonstrate the widths of his ownership. "It was a very sordid, ugly theatre once, and I renovated, redecorated – you can certainly imagine. However, long story short, Dr Watson. Accidents do happen."

He had not much time to think about how this sounded disturbingly close to a threat. He waited then, for one of his two opponents to speak again, and while he did so there was an uncomfortable tension lingering between them, with eyes interestingly roaming and grins on faces that added up to his disconcert.

John, or the part of him that still had something of a common sense and _cared_ about not getting himself killed, should probably overthink at this point. About if this was a good idea. And he would come to the conclusion that, no, he should be retreating. Go back to his old new workplace – the clinic – to treat the normal kind of middle class, where he belonged. Except, he didn't want to accept to belong within this bunch of _normal_ anymore. He was bored down to the bones, and it had him mourning over something he had never known could exist, worn out and restless from too much time to rest.

If Moriarty had caught a glimpse of his antithetic thought processes, it wouldn't have shown on his face, as the smirk had settled so deeply into his face already, carved almost, that he could not tell if his appearance of friendliness was simply working in a way that was disconcerting or if he was rather trying to maintain a reputation. Whether or not his two assumptions were correct, he could understand now why the girls had been so worried.

"You know Ms Irene Adler, Dr Watson?"

When John shook his head no, Moriarty and Mary exchanged another glance of silent conversation of which John was clearly their main topic. He didn't like the looks of amusement, for they could easily be written off as derision.

"I told you," Mary said in a low voice, "He is not resident for long, James, how would he know?"

 _James_. Were they that close?

Moriarty seemed to consider that with eyes fixated on some point far off in the distance. "No … He wouldn't, would he? He wouldn't know..." He came back to them and his pupils flickering within their rings of the iris. As a doctor, John was not sure if this was healthy. They came to a still, focus entirely on John.

"Ms Irene Adler is our … jewel in the crown, if you will. Unfortunately, she cannot be with us today. As I said, accidents do happen, hmh? Therefore, I thought, _Doctor_ , you could be so kind and pay her a visit. Since I already know what brings you here – Mary tattled, that _woman_ ," he trailed off in a sing-sang voice, and it was confusing to follow, "If you want this job, my good doctor, you will go and see how the lovely Ms Adler is doing. Should she accept your treatment and come back as cured, you can consider myself in your debt, and I will owe you … And I can be a very generous man if I owe, Dr Watson..."

Moriarty spoke of his generosity in the same way that John could would speak of himself being a very foolish man if he was truly desperate. And he was desperate, too desperate, for something to finally _happen_ to him.

 


	3. The Hissing Web

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has no idea what exactly he finds so oddly enthralling about the dangerous beauty that is Irene Adler, and he has even less of an idea of what it is about Moriarty that he can't seem to pinpoint, but there is one thing he knows for certain: There is nothing in the world he wants more than to go and find it all out.

That was how John found himself in another hansom, on his way to the mysterious Adler woman. The streets of London he watched passing by from behind the window were certainly familiar, but he could not tell exactly where they were heading. Mary had been the one to tell the cabman the correct address, but he had also no idea why she would think him incapable of remembering an address for five minutes. John was yet again puzzled as to what she saw in him at all. Well, at the very least she seemed to believe that he was mad enough to follow a stranger to a job offer without even knowing what said job would require or ask of him. 

Only in retrospect, and now that he had the time and serenity of a cab ride alone, he realised that he had not asked a lot of questions that any rational man would have thought of asking after being called _treasure_ by a strange woman, dressed in not much but a coat and a dress that looked like lingerie. (Or perhaps, any rational man would have thought of other things entirely when faced with such a woman.) He should have asked the _whys_ and the _hows._

First of all, why _him_? Also, was this the way they usually recruited new members?

The cab came to a halt at the middle of a narrow street, and to the other side of the road John could see a park and street corners that looked more or less the same. His feet found paved ground and he turned around and leant back into the cab to fetch the medical bag from the back seat that he had been given before leaving The Professor. Apparently, they had thought of everything. When the cab drove away down the street, his eyes began to scan the houses in front of him. But he did not have to search for long, as the first pillar to his right displayed the number he was searching for. (As he was, in fact, capable of remembering an address.)

With a bit of reluctance he took a deep breath and rolled his shoulder like he was preparing for battle. Well, it was a battle of sorts. A battle of the unknown that would lie behind those walls. An entry of flat stairs led up to the big front door, and John walked up to knock and announce his arrival. His fingers tightened around the metallic handle of the door knocker, darkened by the decades it had hung and watched over the large transom, and he took a moment to look at the black snake that wrapped its tail around the handle. The figure eyed him with suspicion and its tongue stuck out and mimicked the unspoken message it spread. _Danger._  
  
John cleared his throat and waited for the door to open. As it did, he was greeted by a slim woman with strawberry blonde hair that looked very much like a young housemaid in her attire. Which, as it turned out, was precisely what she was.

"Good afternoon, sir. How can I help you?"  
  
He quickly took his hat off, out of politeness, and held it in front of him with both hands. "Er, hello. I'm Dr John Watson, I am here to look after Ms Adler. Is she in?"  
  
"Oh. Excuse me, sir, but I cannot recall a Dr Watson being one of Ms Adler's assigned doctors. As you will understand, without further assurance I will have to ask you to leave, I'm afraid. Good day."  
  
She was already on the verge of closing the door right in front of his nose when John instinctively took a step forward to place his foot where the door had been about to fall shut. The woman gave him a startled look before her brows twitched in anger. She applied more pressure and tried to push John's foot out of the way with force.  
  
"Mr James Moriarty," he said sternly, raising his voice to increase the impact the name bore, "has personally engaged me to take a look at Ms Irene Adler's injury. I'd rather not disappoint him. Would you?"  
  
John knew he was playing dirty here. But curiosity grew over nicety, and he simply needed to know how big the figure was that Moriarty cut. How major a name he had made in this town and how big a range it was that his reputation reigned over, how heavy in weight it pushed those down who were not scared enough of his powers. Whatever these powers would be, John had no idea. Just loose speculations and a reliable feeling in his gut that there had to be more about this man.  
  
A wave of surprise washed over the maid's face and drained the colour out of her hollow, rosy cheeks. She looked like she was suddenly feeling unwell. As a doctor, John should have been more concerned, but again, curiosity only made him feel like the result of his words was a confirmation of what he had suspected.  
  
"Yes," she whispered hoarsely, eyes out of focus. Then, after clearing her throat, "Yes. Please, if you would follow me, Dr Watson."  
  
They came into a wide hallway with a high ceiling and a white staircase to the left. The corridor she was leading him through was rather dark and thinly decorated. The wallpaper was black and grey damask, and it united the shapes of fine vines with the teeth baring head of a beast surrounded by roses. There were no pictures on the wall, and the only light was coming through the window on the other side of the hallway. John stopped a little perplexed when the maid suddenly took a turn to the right.

The next room she was leading them into was huge. It almost seemed to compensate for the modest furnishing of the corridor from which they came. The walls could only be described as mint grey in colour, arced frames in golden running down from where high ceiling met wallpaper, and the arcs were adorned with excessive patterns. A few chandeliers hang from the ceiling in rose gold with white, halfway burned down candles on top, and one could not tell how many there were on first glance because the illusion of them being many, as well as the room being much bigger, was created by the amount of large mirrors on the walls.

It absolutely complemented the density of so many different patterns and shapes around the room. Squiggly, curved, scattered, jumbled, and there were whole bushes of leaves and flowers around, being a complete contrast to the thin vases on tables with boquets in them. The mixture of different tones of gold, white and dark green and the intermingling of wild growth and trimmed decoration should hurt the eyes more than it did. Curiously enough, it did only express a very special approach of royalty instead. John didn't know if he ought to sympathise with any of this or none of it at all.

In the middle of the room, on a beige sofa with curved legs, there lay a woman, dressed in what looked like hardly more than quite a translucent green dressing gown. She looked like she was either in agony or just extremely bored. John wasn't sure what to prefer in a patient, but it would probably be the latter. When the woman, who could only be Ms Adler, looked up and made out her housemaid, her eyes seemed to instantly brighten, although she did not bother to adjust her position.

"My dear Kate," she started, honest affection and a certain roguishness ringing in her voice. She then shifted her gaze over to him and, to his own surprise, a smile pulled at her red painted lips. "My, my … and who have you brought me here?"

The _dear_ Kate crossed her arms in front of her chest, obviously upset. "Not I," she stated shortly. "James Moriarty did."

The smile on the woman's lips disappeared for a second and she took a sharp breath. Apparently, this little piece of information was more of a reason for her to sit up on the couch properly than the knowledge of having a visitor had been. Her smile reappeared in the form of a smirk as she got up and drifted through the room gracefully while her gown was sliding over the carpet, sweeping the floor. She walked past them as if she was the only one in the room, and she glanced over to one of the floral boquets which stood on the white table that was painted with an orange pattern of tendrils. She bent down a few inches to carefully take the white rose by the haulm and observe it.

"James Moriarty?"

She brought the flower closer to her face and inhaled deeply to take in the smell of it. "What do you think, Kate? He misses me so desperately already? Cannot be without?"

Irene Adler tucked the rose back into its vase and then turned around so abruptly that her robe swirled behind to match with her. "So much that he sends me a doctor of whom I have never even heard before?"

Both he and Kate let their eyes roam appreciatively over her imposing frame. From the chocolate brown hair, which was pinned up into a loose, wavy braid and a few broad curls that were crowning her forehead, to steel blue eyes and red lips, to the embroidered, green dressing gown of which its fabric only just covered her arms, her navel, her breasts, but not a lot of the milky skin in between, and then down to the black high-waist girdle, attached to equally black stockings with straps on them, right down further, along the pair of long thighs and legs. And she knew. She was perfectly aware of what she was owning and how she was using it.

 _Quite ironic_ , John thought as it came to mind how many only lightly clad or naked women he had medicated over such a short period of time. And even more ironic (or remarkable) it was how little he actually cared for this. There had been a time where he would have given anything for a sight like this in front of him; a dark, mysterious, enticing woman who looked just dangerous enough. Odd it was then that these days this was not the case at all. His mood was improving nevertheless, but rather due to the look of mischief in her eyes that had him on alert much quicker than her half-naked form.

"You can leave us alone now, Kate," she said, not taking her eyes off him.

Kate seemed to hesitate for a second, lingering with the thought of prostest, but eventually she left the room and shut the door behind her.

Irene walked slowly towards him and the smirk around her lips only broadened. "You must be truly magical then, if our good James thinks you can do better than the other pack who all tried to _cure_ me." She used the verb as if it was a curse and looked him solemnly in the eyes. "Or maybe you _owe_ him?"

John cleared his throat roughly, and pursed his lips as he calculated. Was she expecting him to be frightened by Moriarty as well? Or was she just testing him, aiming for provoking the opposite? She was impossible to read, and he licked his lips as he realised he could probably only lose if he tried to play the game of lies and bluffs with her. So he decided he would not even start it.

 _"He_ will owe _me_ , actually. Provided that you will let me _cure_ you, as you call it. I can't force you to do anything, of course."

"You're very confident in your abilities, I see. Well, John Watson," she slowly wandered around him as if to measure him up and render her verdict about this or that. It only made John twitch uncomfortably. Why was she so intimidating?

"Well then..."

While she was circling him, she was simultaneously getting closer and closer, so that he could feel her breath on the back of his neck and ear. He tried not to move and clenched his jaw in discomfort as he felt her whispered words coiling around the shell of his ear and tickling the fine hairs inside. It felt like she was trying to find a way to get into the very head of his.

She would never touch him, the only soft contact established through shifts of air around, and when she spoke again, it was with dirty seduction that sounded like a dark spell rather than any form of erotica.

 _"Cure me_."

 

***

 

A few minutes later the tension in the room alleviated, to John's relief, and left both of them in an environment shaped by cool professionalism. It also established the relationship between them anew that was mostly built around foreignness. However nonchalantly she had played it, it had to feel odd to have strange men, including John himself, be sent to her house to watch over her as if she truly was a treasure that could be made worthless by injury. _Jewel_ , Moriarty had called her. Of course, John did not know Irene Adler at all, and he doubted that he ever would, but he wondered if the woman really did not mind or even enjoyed the way Moriarty held her so highly, and thus, dehumanised her. But John had no place to question their nature of relationship either, so he should just stop the wondering altogether and do his job.

As it was, he was already worrying that maybe after all those years he was not meant to be a doctor anymore. Only when he had looked for it, he had detected the long wound that stretched itself around her whole forearm like a glove out of burned skin. And how could he not have seen it? The charms that she had put to good use could be one explanation, but he would like to think that he had an attitude and maturity to not let something like that disturb his work. No, what he had in mind felt much more worthy to worry about.

_Maybe he did not even realise it anymore._

What if wounds like hers simply appeared normal, mundane to him? What if the battles he had fought, the people he had lost and saved, had left him with such an impact that this new life of a civilian he was now forced to live was too much to comprehend? So that it had to be clouded by the normality of war and there was just nothing else anymore. Everyone was a target, everyone was a killing machine. Just like him.

These were only a few of the thoughts he tried to shake off as they were seated opposite each other, on one of those elegant, golden tables. She looked much smaller now, the pure aura of dominance thrown off her, which got replaced by a curiosity that made her look far less like a seductive demon in black, white, red and envious green. She had to be more than sharp features, keen eyes, vicious smile.

John took a look at her arm, which was stretched out for him to examine on top of the tablecloth. He touched it with care, mindful not to hurt her. It looked quite nasty, and he didn't understand why she was not wearing anything to at least protect the injury from getting infected. It was certainly a burn wound that had peeled the skin off her arm, darkening it and colouring it red and purple like the flesh and muscle underneath. Fire must have bitten down to the flesh, exposing and vaulting it until it looked like a painting displaying the horrors of the flames. How was she not in greater pain?

John cleaned the wound with woollen cloth and a chemical solution he had pulled out of his medical bag that was on the table top, next to his hat. She hissed as he tried to gently pat the burned off skin, but she held herself back from retreating her arm.

"Sorry," John muttered and meant it. He should try to distract her from the pain somehow.

But at first he had to clear his throat, perhaps to brace both of them for the conversation to come. (Which seemed a little ridiculous, as it was not as if he was about to tell her that her first born had brutally died. He just wanted to have a trivial conversation with her.)

"So... How did you know I was a doctor? I haven't mentioned that to you, and neither has your maid. Still, you knew." He stumbled a bit over the word _maid_ because of the way they had looked at each other earlier. As it had already been mentioned, the things he had seen in a war zone … Nothing would surprise him anymore.

Irene gave a laugh and frowned at him. "Oh, _Doctor_ Watson. Do not think I wouldn't be aware of what you are trying to do. I do not require this kind of protection, even if it is quite sweet of you."

John blinked a few times and then looked away in mild embarrassment. That woman could see right through him, apparently. But she gave him another smile, softer this time, and sighed.

"But fine. Let's do it your way," she said, sitting up straighter on her chair like she was indicating that the playful bit of conversation had ended now. "Your medical bag."

John looked to his right to see that it was still on the table, right next to him. His expression turned a bit baffled as he did not seem to understand what she was driving at.

"I know these kind of bags," she continued, "This is your medical bag. I am injured. That implies: You are a doctor. Wasn't that difficult to conclude, frankly."

 _Of course!_ John could see that it truly had not been that difficult for her to catch, and now he wished he had asked a question that wouldn't have made him appear more dim-witted than he actually was.

"Now, ask me a real question. Something you are verily interested in knowing of me. And I assure you, there is _a lot_ to know about me." She let out a huffed chuckle at the end of this sentence, and he thought he had seen her wink at him.

John decided to simply go for it then, before he twisted her arm lightly and sterilized the other side of the wound. He could feel her muscles twitch at the sting, but it did not show on her face in the slightest. That was when he decided to simply ask right away.

"James Moriarty … He is your employer, right?"

"Oh, yes," she hummed those words long and with the kind of knowing pride that cast a grin on her lips.

"So what does the man actually do? What makes him so known, so... so frightening to everyone in this city?"

Irene tilted her head to the side and, for a moment, eyed him as if he was the most fascinating, wondrous thing in the world. "You know deliciously little about the man that sent you here, don't you? That is truly rare." She seemed to think something over for a few seconds, and then spoke up again in a louder, rather sober tone of voice. "He is a magician, Dr Watson. Oh, he is brilliant, I can tell you. Brilliant, talented. A marvel at what he does!"

John had to suppress a laugh that would probably have caused him to scarp over her sore skin, and of course, he wanted to avoid that. Still, he huffed out loud. "A magician? Really?"

Irene didn't approve of his mocking grin, and she narrowed her eyes in real offence. Gone was the friskiness of her, it seemed. "Now, you might be laughing, but if only you knew what he is capable of."

He started to search for something in his medical bag and smiled rather to himself than to her. "Is this supposed to be a threat, Ms Adler?"

"Oh no. I wouldn't think of threatening you, John."

He looked up as she was leaving his Christian name at the end of her denial of a threat, which, mind you, sounded fairly threatening. He could not recall when they should have passed over to those terms, or what would give her the feeling she was allowed to call him by his first name. She was leaning over the table, so her face was closer to his and the mischievous twinkling had reappeared in the light of her blue eyes.

"You are no one to be threatened, is that not so? For it would never work."

John opened his mouth instinctively without knowing what to reply to this. But he didn't have to. She was retreating already, her flashing gaze was being adjusted to false kindness and her gown had fallen open further. John looked away. She stroke a hair back from her forehead, seemingly unaware of the picture she painted with her features. Careless – or probably manipulative would be a more appropriate description.

"Pardon me my impatience, Dr Watson, but I have to see to something. It won't be take me _ages_ , I promise. But do not think for one second about leaving, now that you have already convinced me of your qualities as a _medicus_."

Irene got up and ambled through the room until she was by the door. She turned around before she left him with another wink, "James is going to be _delighted_!"

 

The door clunked shut, and John was left in a room that was too full of gold and flowers to not feel enormously lonely all of a sudden. His hand was still buried in his bag, but he couldn't find what he was searching for.

_Irene's medicine._

How could it be that, of all the utensils he had with him, the only one he needed to treat Irene's wound with was missing? Someone, or something, did not want him to get this job, he thought, trying not to picture a greater power in a physical form watching over the universe and deciding he was punishing John, of all people, just because it could.

He needed this job. He may not have known this until now, but he needed it. He wanted to feel like his existence was relevant to some people again, had a purpose. He had taken care of citizens who needed him, of course. But he would like to claim that there was a difference between treating flu and fever on the one hand and treating a burn injury of at least second degree or victims who were hit by a chandelier falling down on them on the other hand, to name but a few examples of when The Prof would need the kind of medical assistance he could provide. At least that was what John imagined they needed him for. (But of what other value could he be for Moriarty, if not as a doctor?)

He didn't quite know himself what he saw in this potential job but an opportunity. If he could trust Irene's impish tongue, he had already made a convincing impression, but he doubted it was up to her to decide. He had learned and still had to get used to the fact that in here it was different than from where he was coming from. They weren't free (for however free a war zone could be considered to be), and women weren't free to do and go where they pleased. A state full of discrimination of which he could not be sure, sadly, if it would ever end.

They all had the potential and the right for freedom, for love, but to try and take all the things that happened in a war zone, where life got narrowed down only to the values that really mattered, and transfer those to a place of eternal peace was more than just naive. Here, where the people still had time to worry about values that had no value at all and the prohibition of the innocent, John couldn't see a future for those who got repressed. Not if the people did not learn what mattered in a war and what would lose its relevance altogether.

So James Moriarty, despite Irene's demeanour that suggested she was having the upper hand, was clearly in control over her and her actions. He had the say on this _opportunity_ for him. His possible escape from the inescapable eternity. He knew that he could never accept this to be the rest of his life. He craved, yearned for so much more than that. And if that meant tolerating the company of a certain Irene Adler or Mary Morstan, or even the ever lingering threat of this proclaimed Professor, then so be it.  
  
He couldn't look Irene in the eye again only to tell her he could not do more for her than what he had done already. Which wasn't a lot, as he had only sterilized her arm up to now. It was not so much for her sake, if he was really being honest with himself. Of course, she was a patient and he was her doctor. But his actions were rather completely focused on reaching his own goals. John was surprised himself these days by how selfish he could be when he was really desperate to finally feel alive again. And how little he cared.

He was getting up and looked around the room. Silence. No one there. Of course not, Irene had just left.

 _There must be something_ , he thought. _Some place she keeps her medicine._ In a place like this, more a mansion than a house, it would be illogical not to keep at least a small cabinet for medicine. 

When he was shoving the chair he had gotten up off closer to the table, he was feeling nervous already. It should not feel like he was doing something forbidden, but even though he was about to pry around someone else's house. It was the contradiction between the fear of getting caught and the mutual thrill of it that stirred the emotional mixture and made his skin tingle with excitement.

Slowly, and with caution, he opened the door and found himself back in the hallway again. It felt as though it had gotten darker, the only window at the end of the hall was now letting less light through, and he saw that thick clouds had shoved themselves in front of the sun. There was no one to be seen, but he was sneaking over the floorboards like he was expecting them to creak any second. He looked around. He had no clue how many floors this building had, but as he looked up to the white circular staircase, he realised it led nowhere. Well, obviously, it did lead _somewhere._ But to get caught because he followed the owner of the house would be pretty damn stupid.

Something else caught his attention.

There was not only one staircase. There was another, hidden in the shadows, right underneath the upper stairs. It was leading downwards.

_So there was a basement after all!_

It was not unheard of rich people hoarding their supplies in the cellar. Somehow, John could imagine it very well. Irene Adler, playing around a bit with chemicals … He realised he had never asked where her injury actually came from. Although he tried to break the bad habit of sticking his nose into other people's affairs. Not one of his best resolutions when he was just about to enter someone else's basement unauthorised. God-knows-what could await him down there. And knowing Irene, or rather not knowing Irene, should tell him enough to know it would be dangerous.

Armed with nothing more than the sharp senses of a former soldier, John walked down the stairs into the darkness.

 


	4. A Change of Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John thinks he has finally found what he was searching for, but realises too late that he is not alone within the dark halls of the basement. There seems to be no way to escape what he is forced to face, and it will not only change his path, not only his perception of the world around him, but perhaps the story of a stolen heart can change his heart as well.

A single golden light was burning on the wall to the bottom of the stairs. It was the only light source John could make out in the darkness. Without it, he surely would have tripped by now. The walls were made of stone while the stairs remained wooden, and the flickering light turned out to be a burning torch. When he reached the last stair, the path made a sharp turn to the right. There was only one way. Careful not to hurt himself he pulled the torch out of its mounting on the wall to carry it with him and defend himself against the dark (and what may linger within it).  
  
The licking flames painted illusions on stone, to the left and right of him, and as much as the lighting calmed his nerves, the shadows and sparks brought up old memories, which set his body on constant alert, always anticipating one of the shadows to break away from the walls to attack. The thought of it made his hair stand on end and the grip around the torch's end tightened.  
  
John narrowed his eyes skeptically when he had finally reached the end of the hall. He was standing in front of a closed door.  
  
_Should that be the end?_  
  
He estimated how improbable it would be for this door to not be locked. On the other hand, it was not as if Irene Adler was expecting someone other than herself to come down her, was it?  
  
The hand that was not holding the torch stretched out to reach the doorknob seemingly by itself as John's curiosity won him over once again. His fingers closed around the cold material, and he hesitated for a second.  
  
_Anything could be in there. God only knew what._  
  
And soon God would not be the only one anymore. There was no turning back. The door whined quietly as he turned the knob and gave it a light push, so that it would open and give insight into the room where it led.

It was the silence that startled him the most. He did not know what else he had expected, but somehow the sudden dominance of the cold air and the quiet seemed like a surprise. His nerves were on edge. The light in his hand flickered over the room with care, as if not to disturb the modest furnishing. He took a few slow steps into the room and gave it a once-over. There were still floorboards on the ground, just like the ones upstairs, but the walls were made of stone. At the end of the room opposite him there was a large shelf filled with vessels, conical flasks, tumblers and jars.  
  
_Jackpot._  
  
This could be exactly what John had been searching for. He walked close to the shelf that almost reached the ceiling, because it was enormous in height, and tried to take in what he could find. Most of the shelves were full of fluids, just as he had presumed. Chemical solutions coloured violet, striking green or brown and muddy. Other shelves had very questionable contents. He leaned down to make out what was swimming in one of the jars, for at first glance it looked like a gigantic tadpole. He was recoiling quickly as he realised that something was staring back at him.  
  
It was an eyeball.  
  
Shelves and shelves, filled with jars and jars with contents of indefinable and unsettling nature. Snakes, spiders, maggots – dead and alive. Eyes, fingernails, skulls of animals – sometimes of humans! But after a while he thought he had finally found something that could be useful to him. There was an Erlenmeyer flask, sealed with a cork and unlabelled, of which the liquid within looked suspiciously familiar in colour. He was just about to reach out and smell on it when something in the room started to move.  
  
John was unaware. He didn't hear the rustling and slow breaths, and he didn't see the shadows moving. He saw the world through a tunnel of his final opportunity and the one piece of domino that could set it all off. Change his fate and future.  
  
His fingers were just about to grip around the neck of the flask.  
  
"I wouldn't touch that if I were you."  
  
The voice out of the dark made John's whole body jump, and he shrinked back from the shelf as the torch fell out of his hand and to the floor with one loud noise as it hit the cold stone.  
  
"Jesus  _Christ_!"  
  
The room turned dark for what felt like far too long a moment in which to be surrounded by complete darkness and endless possibilities of what would linger in it. The flames recovered from the impact and bathed the walls and ceiling into an orange light that gave a threatening effect rather than a soothing one. John could hear his pounding heart like a ringing in his ears as his body settled into a defensive posture while his mind was occupied with calming his alterted nerves and controlling the strong urge to grab the next sharp object to be ready for combat.  
  
But he stopped himself. He didn't even know what he would fight against yet, or if there was any need for fighting at all.  _It has spoken_ , he reminded himself,  _it could not be a wild animal_. Human then. A human being among these dark halls, living in the basement? Or was it a prisoner? Who would imprison someone in a place like this?  
  
Or maybe it was only pretending to be human.  
  
It had spoken in a deep baritone voice, rough as if the man ( _man?_ ) had just woken up, and an underlying rumbling that had sent shivers down John's spine. The fire sent flickering shadows onto every wall, so it was hard to tell what was actually moving and what was an illusion of light. When he heard a soft rustling, he held his breath and clenched his hands into fists. His gaze was narrowed down and focused on the wall opposite him. Finally, it moved to raise itself, and something was flaring up against the light.  
  
John cocked his head to the left and to the right in quick movements, as if to loosen the muscles in his stiff neck, and took a deep breath.  
  
"Who is there?"  
  
The creature shifted from where it still stood, in the dark. It was impossible to tell what was standing in front of him – what was real, limps ( _flesh? bones?_ ) – and to distinguish between what belonged to the shadows fooling him. Its head seemed to move, which caused an unnatural snapping that settled beneath John's ribs for a second before it left just as soon, leaving behind a sickening feeling of repulsion. The sound of something screeching against abrasive stone played the vertebrae of his spine, and he clenched his teeth in resistance against the frightening, the unknown.  
  
A muffled groan was heard and something was stretching. Still hidden in the shadows, still looming in darkness. John thought about bending down to pick up the torch from where it had fallen, not far from his right foot. Maybe  _it_  – whatever it was – was afraid of fire. But he didn't want to take the risk of looking away, of giving up his defence, should it decide to then take advantage in the moment of distraction (some creatures could be very fast, he knew), so just glanced down to where the torch was laying on the floor a few times.  
  
His nerves wouldn't calm, facing all the possibilities his wanton imagination drew for him in his mind's eye, and he shouted because shouting always soothed him. "I demand you speak!"  
  
"There's no reason to be quite so loud. We wouldn't want to arouse any further attention, would we?"  
  
There was the rumbling again. It, he, stepped into the light, and he really had ought to have known that it could only be someone very alive talking to him, for the undead's voices were rotting. This voice was not rotting. It was full, alive, made usage of tones John had never perceived before.  
  
In the moment of unveiling, the shadow of a dark cloud revealed itself as a shock of hair, untamed on top and now illuminated by the dim light like an auburn halo above his head. John himself was the target of piercing eyes made of steel and shifting in colour, holding a knowing gleam and brightness. Pale skin was stretched over sharp cheekbones, and full lips formed a small, intrigued smile. His long neck run down over arteries and muscles, vanishing into shoulders and a pair of collarbones made visible by low hanging white linen. It was a rough fabric, certainly not a sign of value, and it crumpled from where he had to have lain down on the ground.  
  
All the while he was watching John with keen eyes, his hands travelling down to where the shirt was half tucked into dark brown trousers, half not, to pull it out completely, and he smoothed it down in vain.  
  
"You are a doctor," he said, having all the calm in the world, tongue rolling around the "R"s barely hearable.  
  
John looked down on himself. He wasn't wearing his coat, he wasn't holding his medical bag. He could not, by all means, figure out how the man had come to make this suggestion and be right about it, nor was he sure why it would matter. He had still no idea who he was or if he posed a threat to him. „Indeed, I am. How did you...“  
  
Yes, how  _did_  he know now? Irene's explanation about his bag had been absolutely plausible to him. Ridiculing, even, for he had not thought of it himself.  
  
The man let out a sigh, but did not look like he was loathe to elaborate as he shortened the distance between them with only a few long strides, hands clasped behind his back. He raised his brows in an expression of open interest and yet overestimation as he was sizing him up. John was shifting from the one to the other leg, uncomfortable at being the focus of someone else's full attention for the first time in  _he couldn't remember how long_.  
  
"And you are not from here. Interesting," the man continued. "But this is not all there is to you, am I right?"  
  
He was watching him with piercing eyes that seemed to change colour every time the light hit them from another angle. He moved his head like a raven observing its prey, and he tilted his head as those eyes were wandering up and down John's frame. The hands still clasped behind his back he stepped closer, and when his eyebrows raised with his chin, his mouth opened as though he wanted to say something. At second glance, he rather looked like enlightenment had suddenly struck him and one corner of his mouth twitched upwards.  
  
"Is it the Queen or …  _the Order_?"  
  
John's mouth fell wide open, and he couldn't do anything but blink up to this odd, intimidating person as he stole the breath from his lungs.  
  
"How... how do you know about-" he whispered, partially to himself, but the man heard him anyway. Not only his mind was sharp, not only his eyes and ears, but also his arrogance, as it seemed, for he gave a smug smile at this.  
  
"Oh, you mean your highly secret organisation that fights under the name of something you call justice to feel as if you could keep the world save and protect it from evil? Very heroic, by the way."  
  
The irony was as plain as a day, and even if it wouldn't have been, he made sure to role his eyes to make it so. But when his eyes locked with John's again, his smirk replaced that former expression of annoyance quite quickly. "Or do you mean how do I know about you?"  
  
John swallowed. He had to bite the insides of his mouth to keep his distress at bay. It was increasingly alarming to face this beacon of someone knowing what no one else was allowed to ever know of. It was alarming and distressing and thrilling and,  _oh God_ , such a relief! It felt like a thousand little stones were falling from his chest as it was made clear to him that he did not have to keep up these lifelong secret pretences for this stranger, and that was as confusing as it was enthralling.  
  
When the taller man shook his head and closed his eyes for a second as if to keep his thoughts in order, the dark curls on top of his head quivered and bounced from the one side to the other. His eyes opened again and regained focus on John and John alone. This could not be considered staring anymore, it was something else entirely. Something far more intense. He opened his mouth and this peculiar voice flowed out of it like water from a breaking dam.  
  
"The way you hold yourself speaks for years of training in a knighthood – this is a fighting posture you stand in, defensive – your first reaction was to look for a weapon, so experience in battle. Still, you did not dare to grab for something to defend yourself or even pick up the torch on the floor, because you could not be certain you could keep an eye off the shadows. You must have trained eyes, therefore, and also be used to dangers that hide in the dark, dangers of agile and deadly nature. You have enough confidence and trust in your own abilities to not try to run away. No, instead you estimated when the right moment for attack would be. Your bravery and obvious experience told me it could not have been the  _noble_  knighthood you served in, at least not during the last six to seven years. You fought in a real war."  
  
His eyes flashed at this and his smile appeared to be as honest as it was slightly maniac. John could only gape at him, but he went on and on and the pace in which he was speaking only increased.  
  
"You are only a former knight. Why former? Well, first of all you would not stand before me if you were not, also your clothes are too decent and slightly too formal, probably even too formal for your own liking. You were a solider – a swordsman! Clothing had to be practical rather than decent. Meaning now you have to work as something that would be for the public of higher society and respectable. You were an army doctor, and now you are a doctor still."  
  
How he managed not to choke on his own endless monologue would have been a mystery to John if there had been something else he could think of except for  _amazing_  and  _God help me_. This was something else, indeed, and how bizarre it was that this should happen to him. Here, in the basement of this strange lady. Today, on behalf of the professor everyone else feared, and still he had not cared. Blindly, ignorantly had he followed his addiction without arriving anywhere, and now, now for the first time, he found himself speechless. Moved. Absolutely stripped of anything he thought was left of him these days, simply by this man's words that contained his own former glory. It was not only about being read, it was also about being  _seen_.  
  
John's heart skipped a beat when the man stepped even closer, driving him back to the other end of the room. With his hands still behind his back he eyed him from head to toe and started circling him as if the air around John was his orbit and he the earth to his burning sun. John clenched his fists and sniffed, as his instincts warned him of the threat he could be tempted to fight. Of this person looming over him and shifting his weight playfully from the one to the other foot as he wandered around him.  
  
"You are not one of her regulars.  _The Woman_  upstairs suffers from a burn injury," he explained like John wouldn't know, and pronounced her being like it had offended him personally. "You are here to treat her, obviously, but there is more to it."  
  
John licked his dry lips and tried to get his heartbeat under control. He tipped his chin up to make his position clear. The man had said it himself – his bravery made him stand out, and now he had to appear uninhibited by someone who could read his mind at first, and his whole persona at second glance. "You know about that then? The injury?"  
  
His opponent cocked his head to the side and gave him a look and a frown that would have said it all, but he still spoke his mind. " _Please_. Where do you believe she got it from?"  
  
_Oh_. Maybe this could answer a lot of questions. _Indeed, a prisoner? Punished for his misdeeds?_  
  
"Is that why you are here then?"  
  
"Oh no." He shook his with a sarcastic smile that told of how he wished that only this was the case.  
  
John narrowed his eyes in confusion. "Who are you?"  
  
He did not seem to like his questioning anymore, and a little flare of rage rushed over his face as he loomed over him and his pupils diminished. "You don't have the right to ask about the  _whos_  and  _whys_ all you want, do you not understand?"  
  
He turned around in one swift motion, so John could only see the line of strong shoulders and a slim waist, the spine travelling up to the nape at his neck. When he spoke again, it was with regained rationality in his tone and face. "You are most probably not welcome down here, I believe, or you would not lurk about with such caution. No. The question is: what are you doing here? Besides the obvious, of course. You were looking for medicine, led by a foolish idea, but no!"  
  
He spun around so fast that John's eyes struggled to follow his frame, and when he came closer again, he only stopped as their faces were only inches apart. He was looming again. John did not back down, and his dark blue eyes searched light blue.  
  
"Obvious?" he asked, voice rough from the lack of breath.  
  
"Of course. You miss the danger that the war gave you. You miss the battlefield," his voice also almost not more than a hum, and deep and rumbling.  
  
John winced and bit his tongue as the man took his smaller hand in both of his and looked at it.  
  
"Look at you," he murmured and they both looked down at John's spread fingers. "You'd be meant to look distraught, and yet your body is at absolute ease. You lived for this, and now they took it and you don't know what to do."  
  
He let go of him just as his hand was about to start sweating. He had felt his breath on his skin, and it had been cold and hollow. Almost non-existent. And maybe he had imagined it, maybe he hadn't felt anything at all.  
  
The man opened his arms as if to present himself to John and invite him to take closer looks. "What do you think I am?"  
  
What? Not  _who_?  
John started to become fairly suspicious. After all, there had to be a reason for this stranger to know so much about him. (Maybe he was really reading his mind.) There had to be a reason for him to know of the Order, or for him to be hidden away in the cellar of this mansion. Could it be that he was also himself a monster, tricking him into thinking he was cleverer than that, something else than that?  
  
"Are you … ?"  
  
He looked almost offended at this. "Oh, good Doctor. No, no, no. You cannot wildly theorise without having all the facts at present. You would be dead already if I was what you suggest I'd be."

Just when John had immediately decided that the man had to be absolutely right, that he was far too fascinating to be only one of those many, one of those creatures, his attention got narrowed down to the man's movements again. The way he moved, the way he talked, the way he simply treated him - he was like a hurricane, but with too much respect for him to just pluck him from the earth. The feeling of being seen, of being captured by those eyes, it was... good, he decided.

Now he gave him this intense look again, captivating John with only his eyes. His hand grabbed his own left shoulder with a strong grip, and he started twisting it in a way that looked painful and inhuman. "Observe," he breathed. Something creaked and snapped underneath his hand, and before John knew what was happening, he had made the mistake of blinking once and now the arm of the man was where arms should never ever be and where they were not supposed to go without the shattering scream of their owners and tons of spurting blood.  
  
_He took his arm off_ , was all John could think, but could not comprehend.  _He took his arm off, he took his arm off, his_ bloody _arm. is. off._  (And not bloody at all.)  
  
John felt his jaw drop and his eyes watering from not allowing himself to blink again.  
  
"Uh," he could only hear himself say. As a doctor, he should be able to explain this, shouldn't he? But where the arm had been mounted to the shoulder there was only a hole now. No sign of flesh or bone.  
  
"You're... you- you're a machine. Oh. Of course you are."  
  
"Of course?" The seemingly-not-man looked truly confused for the first time during their encounter.  
  
"Well, yes, of course. At least this explains how you could read me like a book."  
  
He quirked a brow. "You think nobody could be that clever?"  
  
John gave a laugh, an actual laugh, as he realised just how ridiculous this conversation was becoming. Or rather his life at the moment. But was ridiculous better than monotonous, uneventful? Oh, so much,  _so much_  better.  
  
He shook his head in disbelief and the words just spilled out of him. "I thought you were too astounding for it to be true."  
  
That set the robot blinking. (Would he even have to blink? How did he work?)  
"Did you just say I was astounding?"  
  
"Erm..." John didn't know what to say to this. He didn't know what he was still doing here. How was he even supposed to feel? Disappointed now? Scared? Should he have fainted? But all he could feel was actually mild embarrassment because his fascination for him had surely been highly obvious until now. "It was certainly an impressive trick, so yes. Extraordinary."  
  
The taller man still held his arm in his other hand and gave a huff. "Not how people usually characterise me. They tend to mistake my sharp tongue for discourtesy." He waved the arm that was unmounted from his shoulder blade, gesturing through the room with it as he was pacing. "They think they knew anything beyond the detective who solves their murders... But I am not so obvious a trick."  
  
"Oh? But I thought you- Wait. Hold on, are you saying you are  _the_  detective? The one who went missing?"  
  
John had read of him in the papers with interest and listened to Mrs Hudson's stories of the clever detective. He didn't like to admit it, but he had assumed the man was dead. And even less had he dared to believe he would ever stand in front of him. But was he not dead? Had he ever even been alive?  
  
He had turned his back to him again.  
  
"Sherlock Holmes," said he, and his hand shot out to throw his own arm at John. Due to quick reflexes he caught the hand along with the whole arm before it could hit him in the face, and he understood it as a matter of greeting, a substitute for shaking hands. (He should be worried about himself that he understood the gesture at all.) It said at least enough about him that he practically forced John to either take the hand or get hurt by it, and it said a lot about John himself that he accepted this as a way of introduction.  
  
Sherlock Holmes turned around in one swift motion, suddenly a teeth baring smile on his face. It made the skin around his eyes crinkle and form broad laugh lines, transforming his whole appearance. (How could there be laugh lines? How could there be skin?)  
  
"Hah! Excellent reflexes. You'll do. You'll do nicely, Doctor."  
  
"John Watson."  
  
"Dr Watson." Sherlock Holmes offered him the hand that was still part of his body this time, and John shook it with his free one.  
  
Their hands did not let go of each other, even as John looked up and searched his eyes with a hard look that was blue steel. He tried to lock his mind to prevent the detective from somehow reading it again. "I'll do  _what_  nicely?"  
  
"You are going to help me to get out of here," Sherlock whispered with a throaty voice, his eyes liquid and lively, eager to unlock the door of these prison bars John was hiding his soul behind. It made John shiver, goosebumps running down his arms, as he realised how warm Sherlock felt. He knew he was not warm, everything about him was rather lukewarm if anything, not completely cold-blooded, but objectively speaking  _not warm_. Yet, he was so alive and so close as if his very being and core of existence had only lived right behind the walls of eyes or mouth, or whatever else it was if it was not skin.  
  
"And why would I do that? Why would I help out a robotic copy of a mad detective that has gone wild? After all, there must be a reason for you being here."  
  
Sherlock stared him down until John could only swallow and listen. "For I am not a copy. I am the original, as alive as I have ever been. My body has always only been my mind's transport, and if you think that anything I said to you was only a product of technology, well, you are dearly mistaken. It is my Sciene of Deduction that made me like this, and no one could take my own thoughts from me. But there is something else that I need back."

He grinned all of a sudden, and his eyes sprawled wrinkles. John swallowed again.  
  
"Oh  _Doctor_ , I can see there is so much more to you!"  
  
Those eyes watching him, and this deep voice, vibrating like a string coated with honey, went straight down his back, he couldn't deny. Prickling, making his stomach flutter. He didn't know what it was. Didn't know what  _he_  was. Finally, Sherlock let go of his hand, only to put his on top of the one John that was holding the arm with. "Would you be so kind as to attach this to my shoulder again?"  
  
John only frowned at him. "First of all, I am a doctor, not a tinkerer, and if you think I would just blindly-"  
  
A few minutes later he was attaching the arm to his shoulder. John's hand was placed on Sherlock's shoulder blade and, despite all of his protest, he gave his best not to break anything. Sherlock's body felt hard underneath his grip, not exactly like there were any bones beneath the slim structure, and still, he had no idea what the detective even was, what he was made of, how he came to exist. He was fairly sure that he was not alive but undead, an experiment of someone else's sick mind and a product of madness. That was why he thought, as he mounted arm to shoulder, about how reasonable it was to interact with a machine, and above all, to argue with one.  
  
"I have to say you are far from the genius Mrs Hudson described you as," he mumbled under his breath.  
  
"You know Mrs Hudson? Is she all right?" Sherlock asked, sounding so human for a second that John was forced to doubt everything he had thought only moments ago.  
  
"Yes, I've met her yesterday. She was worried about you," he murmured, and gave a satisfied huff as the limb clinked in place.  
  
Sherlock moved his fingers again as if nothing had ever happened. "Of course she would be. The woman is smart. She can sense when something is off."  
  
"Yeah, about that," John started, and then remembered that he didn't actually have a clue how long he had been down here already. Irene Adler could be wondering about where he had gone this very moment, or get suspicious and look for him. To whatever compromise the two of them would come, it had to be made quickly. "What is it about you now? What happened?"  
  
"Listen. And I need you to trust me now, do you understand?" He grabbed both of John's upper arms, forcing him to focus on him and only him. "The Woman is not what you think she is. In fact, not at all. She is extremely dangerous and she is part of the ring of people who did this to me. What do you think is this place? Do not think for only one  _second_  that she wasn't one of the inhuman. When the chance of spilling acid on her skin presented itself to me, I took it without a second thought. The achievement of hurting her is a rare one, and she deserved it."  
  
John tried to process this. Along with all the other impossibilities he had been confronted with before and since his arrival, he would like to say he had seen the most harrowing, the most horrofic and the oddest of the odd. He felt weak for being shaken by Sherlock's words. But he was. And how he was. He could not seem to understand how someone would deserve having their skin burned and possibly deformed forever. Couldn't understand how someone could do this to a tempting beauty, unless, maybe, if this person was a heartless killing machine. He knew things were hardly always what they seemed to be at first glance, but to imagine a dancer with a pretty face turning out to be a villainous creature was anything but easy.  
  
"Ever heard of James Moriarty,  _Soldier_? Even though you were on the field for quite some time?"  
  
The way Sherlock mentioned his military background set his nerves on positive alert. "You could say I've heard of him, yes."  
  
"He is the head of it. He did this to me."  
  
Sherlock's hand moved to his face to take the skin at the edge of his jawline between his fingers. He pulled the pale material upwards to reveal silver metal underneath. John knitted his brows in slight disgust, but the last thing he wanted to do was looking away as the man effectively skinned himself. Sherlock only stopped right below his cheekbone and then smoothed it down again until the illusion of a human face was adjusted.  
  
"He stole my heart. He took my life," he continued, and he would never admit this, but his voice broke for only a second. "I was the first, but I will, by no means, be the last. This is why I have to solve this case."  
  
Sherlock still had a strong grip on both arms. He didn't look restrained, nor reigned by his own self-control. He looked like he was either feeling sorry for himself or for John, and a hint of desperation could be found in the way his eyes shifted from one eye to the other, and the slight pout of his lips. "Will you help me, Doctor?"  
  
John rubbed his closed eyes with the balls of his hands, because he was also desperate. He was desperate for this mystery named Sherlock Holmes and James Moriarty and maybe Irene Adler and who else might be hanging onto this chain of strange and sudden circumstances. So he had been mistaken all this time then? Evil would always be a part of this city, and no knighthood, no organisation, however strong, could prevent invaders from invading.  
  
The expression of Sherlock Holmes not only made him feel sympathy, but also the undeniable desire for justice.  
  
"And if you are not doing it for me," Sherlock said, "do you at least want to feel it again? The thrill of the chase, the blood pumping through your veins like it used to?"  
  
All be damned, his words were like an incantation spoken to summon him. It worked perfectly. "Oh God,  _yes_."  
  
After that, Sherlock's mien turned out to be a mask that fell and transformed into a self-pleased grin. "Excellent."  
  
_What an utter git_ , John thought with a grimace. Despite all of this, despite the charming manipulations, the manners of an obnoxious know-it-all, the doubtfulness of lie and truth, the madness and danger of it all, he was already starting to like him.

 

***

  
"So what was your plan, Genius?"  
  
"Simple."  
  
They were sitting on the floor as if they had all the time in the world. Sherlock had assured John that he was able to tell when Irene would start searching for him.  
  
_I know the pattern of her steps when she is behaving uneasily_ , was his explanation, and John had decided that there was little else he could do but to believe him, since he had gotten himself into this situation that was pretty much settled. It was settled that he had now mentally quitted working for this  _criminal mastermind_ , as Sherlock had called Professor Moriarty, ( _not even a real professor_ , he had also not missed to remark) and was more or less willing to listen to what this consulting detective had to offer him.  
  
Vague ideas and varying plans that might or might not work, as it turned out.  
  
Sherlock sat opposite him with his long legs crossed, John had one leg stretched and the other bent while the flickering torch was resting between them, held upright by his hand.  
  
"Our biggest advantage is that Adler doesn't know of you and me as a unit. That is a benefactor in strategy," Sherlock stated as if it wasn't news at all. "I believe you know something about poison?"  
  
"Wait. Don't tell me that you ask of me to kill her? With poison?"  
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes and let out a sigh. "If only it was so easy. No, you fool, you could not. You could, however, immobilise her long enough for me to get out of here and, if we are lucky enough, without drawing the attention of her pests."  
  
"Pests?" John breathed, but Sherlock did what he had already learned he could do best. He ignored him, and continued voicing his thoughts out loud in double time.  
  
"Lucky for us, I have already mixed such a poisonous emulsion for precisely this kind of opportunity. As it is, Doctor, you are a true conductor of light at this moment. In the literal sense."  
  
John felt a bit ridiculed, his own value understated by him having brought along the torch as a light source, and he could not help but think that he was being used. But of course he was, what else had he expected? They were nothing more than strangers that have met under the weirdest of circumstances, and this Sherlock Holmes did not look like someone who would waste a chance like this. He had gotten up and rummaged around in the shelves, only to pull out a small test tube with a liquid inside that was lilac in colour.  
  
"This should do," he claimed, holding the tube between his long middle finger and thumb, and he closed one eye to observe it closely.  
  
John stood up as well and watched Sherlock through the glass of the tube, which made his face look even more alienated and his eyes more colourful than they already were.  
  
"Surely you have some sort of bag with you where you keep your medicine? Of course you do, every good doctor would. So if she is not in the room yet, place this tube in the bag and then pull it out when she comes back. She will think it was medicine you brought yourself and probably not become suspicious too quickly. Apply this to her injured arm and the skin will absorb the toxic chemicals. She should be unconscious within the first three minutes, six minutes at most."  
  
"What if it doesn't work?" John asked, but took the tiny bottle anyway.  
  
"If anything major occures that departs from the plan, I will interfere before you can be put into a situation of inescapable danger."  
  
John tilted his head in bewilderment. Could it be that his apparent partner in crime was overrestimating himself by an awful lot? Was it really wise to trust him as much as he had asked of him? For all he knew about him, he could as well be a liar or a criminal mastermind himself, which would make John an accomplice just about to help the cyborg out and become a possible threat to all the civilians he had sworn to protect. Sherlock had already proven himself to be quite good at manipulating others. Why not playing a bluff? Or a double bluff?  
  
Or, also for all John knew, the machine could just as well pretend to be Sherlock Holmes and the real one was some six feet under at this very moment. What was also not out of question, for he must have been living in this basement for a while now and had to be bored out of his wits, was that he had taken some of the stuff in the shelves himself and was sky high right now. Although, that could be something to rule out. John was no expert on this, but he doubted that machines could actually get high.  
  
"Now here comes the interesting part," Sherlock announced, and his hand moved to his face.  
  
For a moment, John thought he might remove his skin again. He should not be entirely wrong. Sherlock's fingers pressed into the space between his left eye and the orbital rim, deeper and deeper, until the tip of his fingers had fully disappeared behind the eye. John shuddered all over, but he could not look away as the eye popped out. Sherlock looked agonised himself for a moment, his brows pulled together, building a bridge that wrinkled above his nose. But it eased out as the eyeball suddenly sat between his fingers, a red tail hanging down at the back of it.  
  
"Erm." John didn't know what to say to this. Just when he thought it could not get madder …  
  
"This way, I can keep my eye on you."  
  
He held it out for him to take it, but John only hesitated and waited for the joke to come. When he realised that Sherlock was as serious about this as one who was about to lend an eye to someone else could possibly be, he let out a groan and opened his palm.  
  
"But just so you know, for this last line of yours I should've changed my mind over this matter at least twice."  
  
Sherlock put the eyeball down into his palm with caution. "If you had changed your mind twice, you would have come to the same mindset by now, so it wouldn't make a difference in the end. Do think, Doctor."  
  
Before John could protest, he became aware of the fact that he was holding an eye within his palm. It felt different from what he had expected. Neither slimey, nor too squidgy. Not what one one would imagine an eyeball to feel like. He shot a glance at the eye that he had seen earlier – the one that was swimming around in the dirty glass in the shelf – and it was looking back at him.  
  
"This is not a real organic eye, do keep up. You should have noticed, I think you have studied it at some point, even if you were too dim to properly store the information away. It's a mockup, but it allows me to see even when it's not inside of my body."  
  
Suddenly, he closed the distance between them with long strides and whipped the red handkerchief out of John's breast pocket. John had no idea what was happening. He was hyper-sensitive to the feeling of long fingers brushing his chest, but he didn't even notice how he was licking his lips. Torn between amazement and objection he eventually wanted to step back, but Sherlock linked his fingers into the pocket and kept him in place. "Let's see if the fabric is thin enough for me to see through it."  
  
"Hold on! I am not going to carry your bloody eyeball with me like some kind of accessory!"  
  
But as much as John wanted to object, all the consulting detective had to do was to tilt his head in a certain way and furrow his brows, and already John was feeling foolish for having tried to object in the first place. He let out a long-suffering groan again, and the eye slid into his breast pocket with ease. Sherlock looked at him with satisfaction before he stepped back and held one hand over his other eye, so that all you could see of him was a tall body with pale skin and a hollow eye socket. He looked truly frightening now, half hidden by the shadows, with this big black hole in his face, all black and white. He looked like a ghost. As mysterious and gorgeous as he was bone-deeply scary.  
  
"It works," he said.

John only found it surreal that he was looking so dead and still talked like a man who was jolly alive. Finally, he opened the other eye again. Thus, the figure he cut now was only half as unsettling. He still looked dangerous. Not monstrous at all, now that he knew who the man was, knew how this angular face moved and changed when he was smiling, but just... dangerous. John found he couldn't look away. And the longer he looked, the stronger he was feeling the thrill that was pumping hot blood through his restless body.  
  
"I'd say that the game is afoot then, Doctor. I think I've heard steps from the stairs on the first floor. You should hurry now."  
  
_Game, yes, of course. Think of it as a game. You're only planning to poison someone, Watson. Oh, and you are about to help a possible robotic madman to escape from the basement of a mansion prison to play his games in a world where nothing is how it seems._  
  
Great. Bloody great.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So we're finally at the first Sherlock chapter! The first of many, I can promise. Oh, this is exciting!
> 
> What's Irene gonna do now that those two lunatic thunderbolts have found each other, eh? Well, of course I know already. And man, it's gonna get mad...


	5. The Snake and the Tiger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ball starts rolling and John is too intrigued to stop it. He will learn very soon what it means to get involved with Sherlock Holmes, as well as the consequences of choosing his side in a fight against James Moriarty and his accomplices. And Irene Adler turns out to be one of them, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: Shit gets real.

John felt stuck in a dilemma. He wanted to help. Even if the person who required his help was an undead robot, currently watching his every move through his breast pocket. (And how he wished for this to only be a very odd kind of metaphor.) But if what Sherlock said was all true, he had to help. Since he had first heard of him a strong feeling had grown in his gut, advising him against believing in the good nature of James Moriarty and his intentions. From the moment he had first met him he would never have ruled out the possibility of him being more than just a businessman – and most businessmen had a touch of evil to them already.

Finally, he was in the hallway again, right where he had been before the ball of this surreal story had started being rolled not too long ago. Just to assure himself he felt for the outline of the tube in his trousers and with his other hand he did the same for the eyeball over his chest. He tried to tell himself that this was still not one of the weirdest thing he had ever done. He winced as it gave a slight jerk. He must have touched the pupil. And it could not even blink away the irritation, as it had no eyelids. John was about to mutter a silent apology, but immediately felt ridiculous and dismissed the thought.

This was not the time for embarrassment though, he reminded himself. He slipped into the room where he had treated Irene earlier, just as he heard the footsteps on the stairs getting louder and therefore closer to the main floor. John made short work of placing the tube with the lilac substance in his medical bag and somehow managed to not look too caught in the act when the door openend again.

Irene walked through the room with the same grace, but in a different dress that was, to John's relief, covering a much greater amount of skin this time. She was wearing a black, tight dress that started right below her long neck and ended around her knees. She caught a very slim figure, but did not look less posh, despite the now slightly tousled hair and lazily adjusted hairdo.

She came towards him in the midst of fastening her earring and appeared to be too concentrated to look at him. "I am very sorry I made you wait so long. But dear Kate required immediate help, and the matter was of highest importance, and therefore impossible for me to ignore. But now, Dr Watson, I can grant you you will have my fullest attention."

She smiled now, and John noticed she had also not only refreshed her lipstick, but also replaced it with a darker red, almost purple tone. Once again he had almost forgotten about the ugly figure that her arm was still cutting, and then he also remembered that he, never mind the oath he had sworn once, was not actually here to make her any better.

"Oh no, it's fine. It gave me the time to look around a bit … appreciate the décor." John tried to keep not only a straight face, but also a sort of neutral smile. It did not help with the feeling that had settled around his lungs and wanted him to stop talking altogether. He didn't know what would be more suspicious, and there was a thin line between saying too much and not saying enough. If Irene had noticed anything of his inner conflict, it didn't show.

Both of them sat down and took in the positions they had been in before, readjusting to both their roles in this calculated little play as they sat down opposite each other with a table to separate them. John carefully took out the tube he had just slid into his bag and shot her a quick glance from the corner of his eye. She still smiled like naïveté personified. John didn't like it. He had to try to distract her somehow, or he might blow his cover.

"I mean, there certainly is a lot to appreciate in here. This is a very nice house."

She stretched her arm out over the table for him again and her grin showed teeth. "Why, thank you. I chose everything myself. If you had seen this place before I got my hands on it, my, my."

John took out a soft cloth and opened the cork of the glass to let the liquid drip on it. "Very commodious, too."

"You think so, John? How come?"

His eyes widened, and he looked up from where he was just about to rub the substance into her damaged skin. It was so startling to hear her using his first name so suddenly and uninvited. She would not stop smiling, and that made her cross the line between politeness and growing disturbance.

"What exactly did you like?"

 _She knows_. John realised it with a sweat-draining hint of panic. _She knows. She must know._

Irene leant forwards in her chair, bent further across the table and her eyes gleamed darkly, the pool of icy blue in which her pupils swum becoming ever smaller. "His intelligence?"

Her tongue made the words slippery when she spoke, her voice strong without any distance between them. She was inches from his face, but it felt as though she was speaking directly against the insides of his head. Everything was duplicated and John had to be hallucinating. He was feeling sick and his mind swam on strange waters. He couldn't look away as she grew two faces, three faces, ten faces, and he saw himself in her hundred pairs of tiny eyes. He pressed his eyelides together, and everything shifted back to normal for a moment. But not for long.

The maniac, humourless smile on her face remained, and she did not blink once as her tongue vibrated with every word, thick under the weight of her thousand voices. The world turned mad.

**"Hi _sss_ da _sss_ hing figure? Hi _ssss_ word _ssss_ of wi _ssss_ dom? Hi _ssssss_ irre _ss_ i _ssss_ tible baritone?"**

She arose, not only to her feet but in height, in presence. Her very soul arised and John could only look up to her growing frame. Everything was blurry.

**"Hi _sss_ _sssss_ inging voice?"**

It was impossible to tell if she had two arms, four or eight, if eyes were in pairs of thousands or millions, if the ground shifted and crawled underneath his chair or if he was, in fact, the poisoned one. She started screaming and John felt his ears bleeding from the inside out.

**"Did you think I would not recogni _ssss_ e what he has mix _sssss_ ed in my own ba _sss_ ement? What ha _sss_ he promi _sss_ ed you? What could you want from the _ssss_ taggering _Ssss_ herlock Holme _ssssss_?"**

Her fingers were about to wrap around his throat. He knew. He knew she would lunge for him, down at him, every moment now, but he could not move. He could not even feel himself trying. His limbs felt numb and useless where he was looking up at her from the chair, and his only thought was that _no, it couldn't end like this, not like this._

**"What more could he give you but a hollow promi _ssssshhhh_?!"**

_Bang._

The door broke open with a smack and surely damaged the wall it had crashed against. The noise was so loud that Irene spun around and fury was written all over her face. Her appearance was one big chaos that caused a thousand headaches and it felt like the very space she was moving in was simply broken. Two arms, eight arms, monstrous, woman again. The white and blue in her eyes got replaced by round black pairs, between her red lips grew ugly fangs, and back and forth and back forth again, again, again.

The world kept spinning around, but John tried to keep himself steady enough to finally gain back some focus, and when his glassy eyes stopped rolling back into his head, they focused on the figure that had crashed the door.

"How about a hollow client?"

There had never been someone more deserving of being called _dashing_ than Sherlock Holmes in this very moment. He was standing there, stable on two feet, in the doorframe. The light of midday hit him, and John's prior image of him twisted and rewrote itself. His dark brown curls were as wild as they were well-behaved enough to not fall into his stormy blue and gleaming eyes. His skin looked even paler, his clothes even more rummaged, but he looked, above all things, highly dangerous. His plush lips were a straight line, his eyes hard on Irene's blemished body.

It looked like there was a gun in his right hand, but at second glance he could see that the end of his hand _was_ the gun!

Sherlock did not hesitate for one second too long. He shot. The bullet disappeared right into the skull. The misshapen Irene Adler collapsed in a heap like a hot-air balloon without air.

John could finally move again, but all his limbs felt like they would not belong to him anymore. He could barely so much as stand up from his position on the chair as Sherlock stepped over the corpse that was lying there like a fallen circus tent.

"And I always keep my promises," he mumbled as if she could still hear him.

"Christ!" John shouted out, finally realising what had just happened. "You said we wouldn't kill her!"

"As I said, Doctor, I wish it would be that easy to kill this _Woman_. I would have done it ages ago."

John pinned the bridge of his nose in frustration and was about to kneel down next to the inhuman remains of Ms Adler when Sherlock caught his arm and pulled him back up for him to look him in the one eye (as the other one was still inside of John's pocket, right above his rib cage.)

"Don't. I told you, she is not what she pretends to be. And this is not her corpse. She is indeed our hollow client now."

They stayed like this for only seconds too long. But long enough for John to be the first to look away and gulp down his insecurities. Then something clicked. "Wait. If you could simply walk out of that basement, why have you not done so before we met?"

Sherlock let out a dramatic sigh and closed his eyes ( _one of them_ ), clearly resisting the to give him a look. "Because I couldn't. There was a spell on the door obviously, broken by you walking through it. Thanks for that, by the way." He looked around with suspicion. "But this is not the time. We have to be careful now. With any luck they haven't heard us yet."

John looked back in confusion. "Who hasn't heard-"

But he stopped as the ground underneath him shook and bestial sounds started filling the air. It was the cracking and snapping of tiny teeth and legs crawling over the floor. Just beneath of what was left of Irene Adler dozens and dozens of black spiders scuttled out, turning the room dark and creating the illusion of an earthquake. They were thick and hairy tarantulas and they were coming for them! One of them was already up John's leg and he shook it with sudden panic until it fell off, but the other ones were relentless and countless. Irene was gone, transformed into an endless stream of hunting spiders, and now John really started panicking.

He was not afraid of spiders. Having thousands of them coming for him, though, was also not exactly a dream come true, if he was being honest. He hated it when he lost track of his enemy, especially when said enemy was absolutely innumerable, endlessly distributed. He needed a clear aim he could fire at. In his mind's eye he could already see himself going down and having this stream of vermin burying him underneath their tiny claws and clasping fangs.

A hand on his shoulder grounded him, in more ways than only one, and he looked directly into Sherlock's solemn, soothing eye. It was impossibly blue and he almost would have missed his very loud, very clear advice.

_"Run!"_

 

They ran. John trusted Sherlock to know where to find an exit better than himself for many reasons, and he was always right behind him. At the end of the hall there came a sharp turn. The front door was already covered with nasty spiders and they had to take the large spiral staircase, which was luckily equipped with carpet, so it was easier not to trip. Still, Sherlock did trip (you would think that should not happen to a machine), and John almost fell over him. He could avoid stepping onto his head by the fraction of an inch, and he pulled him up in one single breath, as if they would have done this a thousand times.

The first floor had too many rooms, and all the doors and the ceilings were painted in white while the floor was dark wood, but there was not much more to pay attention to, as the adrenaline flew through them and urged them to finally find a way out of here.

Door by door passed by, Sherlock stopped, John almost bumped into him, he looked into a room and ran again. Once more, running, stopping, looking, running. Slowly but surely John got the feeling that maybe he should not have trusted him all that blindly or maybe at least have asked if he did even know where to go.

"Sherlock!"

His pants were coming shorter and he eventually dared to look behind them to see that the immediate danger didn't seem to be directly at their feet anymore. When he turned his head again, Sherlock was nowhere to be found, but a shutting door told him into which of the room he had disappeared. A second later a loud, piercing scream could be heard from inside the room and John slammed the door open, having no idea what to expect. He expected danger, but this scream hadn't sounded like it could have been in Sherlock's vocal range.

John stormed into the room. His vision had narrowed down to a tunnel view. He didn't stop thudding towards Sherlock, and before the detective knew what was happening, he was giving him a heavy push that had him stumbling back. Sherlock's face turned into a display of irritation and he automatically made himself appear even taller in defence.

"Why do you close the _bloody_ door in front of my _bloody_ nose, you git? What is wrong with you?!"

He didn't care if they could hear him now or not, and he didn't think it mattered now. He could only see Sherlock through a filter of red rage and almost wanted to shove him again for getting them into this situation, just before the shrill voice drew his attention again, and he realised they were not alone in the room. They had just broken into a bedroom, apparently.

Kate was standing in front of the bed, desperately trying to cover her naked body with the bedclothes she was holding in front of her chest.

"What are you doing here?" she cried, but none of them had the time to answer.

The spiders were already on their way, rushing through the open door in a swarm, crawling to get to them from all sides, climbing onto the wallpaper and ceiling and the floor. They all stared with eyes widely blown, and Sherlock's gaze was the first to avert from the forlorn scene in front of him as he turned to John again.

"That's why I closed the door!"

John actually growled as he had now two pairs of eyes (or rather a few hundred – and Sherlock's didn't count as a pair) to glare at him in fury. Kate's hands tightening around the sheet that covered her front and she looked horrified. "What happened to Ms Adler?!"

They were both ignoring her in favour of worrying about how they would ever make it out of here alive. Sherlock swirled around once, twice, eagerly searching for a way out. You could see the wheels in his mind turning, and whether there were actual wheels in this mind or not didn't matter now, as long as he was going to come up with a brilliant idea as soon as possible. Sherlock, too, seemed to be on the edge of panic, but he had himself under control, his eye jumping from one point to another and another at a tearing speed while the rest of his body just stood still, seemingly unaffected by the uproar around him. But all of a sudden the expression changed and the dots must have gotten connected in his mind, for the light returned and his cloudy face was brightening.

He threw his hands in the air and then brought them together in front of his chest, as if to pray, before he spun around and came to a halt right in front of John while looking at him like he was the very answer to the universe.

"Doctor, do you trust me?"

"What? You practically abandoned me on the other side of this goddamn door and now you're asking me-" John wanted to flip a table, but Sherlock interrupted him with an equal frustration showing in his features.

"Well, if you would have thought about closing this _goddamn_ door- No, it doesn't matter now. Doctor, take my hand!"

Before John could even so much as make the attempt to protest, his hand was grabbed by large, cold fingers closing around it harshly. Sherlock squeezed his hand in a way that was almost painful, and he actually gasped from the suddenness of it. Sherlock acted fast, giving John no chance to think. With one last gaze over his shoulder, as if to assure himself that there really was no other way, he turned to the window.

A loud noise echoed in their ears as the glass cracked around the bullet hole and split into a thousand little lines and pieces. Sherlock fired a shot and the smoke was swirling upwards from where his hand had been replaced by the revolver. The spiders looked unimpressed, one of them even jumped and tried to ram their fangs into John's leg, but John kicked it and the hard toe of his shoe sent it flying across the room. He understood now that they really had to get out of here, and they had to do it now.

"When I say jump, jump!" Sherlock whispered into his ear as if he was afraid to be overheard. John winced at how close his voice was, but there was no time to wonder.

Sherlock pulled him by the hand and shot one last glance into the room, which was now completely invaded by this wild cluster of tarantulae. They were running towards the window full speed ahead. Somewhere in the back of his head a small voice tried to tell him that this was the point of no turning back now. They had to break through, they had to jump. He didn't think about it. He didn't try to think anything, because he knew that if he dared to think about it, he would try to stop it, he would hesitate and this would be the end.

He didn't think, he only acted on absolute instinct as he waited for Sherlock's signal – the only command that could control him now. And there it was.

_"Jump!"_

Everything happened in slow motion. They pulled up each other by their joined hands as their feet left the ground. Both managed to throw their arms up in front of their faces and twist their bodies, so that the shards would not rip any life-threatening wounds into their veins and ateries. (Or cables and false skin.) The noise painted all of John's thoughts white and for a moment that was what hurt the most. The loud, thrilling and seemingly endless noise of shattering glass around them as they broke through the large window, and then they opened their arms again and flew.

 

Sadly, they did not fly for long. They let go of their hands in mid-air and there was a short moment where time stood still and they only looked at each other. John felt himself falling uncontrollably, his back to the ground. He knew that, should he land unluckily enough, he was going to break his neck or spine. Then it would've all been for nothing. Everything he had sworn to himself, the goal he had set himself. That he would find a way out of his inner misery. This could be the way out. He had no control over it. Even if he had, he would not know what to do. John closed his eyes. Waited for the pain to come and fade away with him.

_All for nothing._

Sherlock was falling, too. He was just above him, facing him, his back turned towards the clouded sky. His eye was more intense in the day light than now, grey like the sky. But John couldn't see. Sherlock was reaching for him, for his outstretched arms, pulled upwards by gravity, and John snapped his eyes open when something was grabbing him. Touching him. Sherlock's hands tightened around his shoulders, and within a half second he had flipped them over in the air and the crash came faster now, sudden.

_Rrrrroms._

Disoriented, John woke up to find they had landed in the middle of a large bush. His limbs were partially tangled with Sherlock's, who had sunken into leaves and branches, and he looked about as whacked and confused as John felt himself.

"Oh my God..." he groaned slightly pained, and then he realised what Sherlock had done.

He had turned them over, so he would be the one to absorb most of the impact's force before John could, just like he thought he would, hit the ground and break his bones. A fairly generous gesture from the same man that would have left him standing outside a closed door to get eaten by a mob of vicious spiders. He couldn't be sure, of course, if this was just his way of making up for that or if he didn't want to let John die and knew he could not die himself, but John was rather surprised by how grateful he suddenly felt for having been saved.

He realised now, after the first wave of shock had finally faded, that their positions had caused him to lie half on top of Sherlock, and he quickly looked up into his face. What he saw there should not have made him panic as much as it did at first, but he could not hold back a gasp. Sherlock's temple was covered in – _what, blood?_ – bright red and it ran down the side of his face and was damping some of his curls.

He felt his fingers itching with the urge to stroke back some of his dark strands and check the entry wound, check on his breathing, his pulse. Before he even knew what was happening, the words had left his lips in a whisper. "You- you're bleeding."

He then started to understand, but Sherlock still rolled his eye at him for good measure. He wiped over his forehead with the back of his hand and said in a dry tone, "Berries," as if this would explain everything. Well, in his defence, John had to admit it kind of did.

"Because you," he sighed, "you cannot bleed because … you're a cyborg," and he tried to get up and off the detective underneath him, so that they could finally get out of this _berry_ bush. By the time they had managed to stand on two feet again and were whisking the leaves from their clothes, Sherlock just frowned at him while as he continued, "Yes, of course. Cyborg, how could I forget?"

There was a loud noise from the window they had just jumped through, and their heads snapped up. The frame of the window that had still stood two minutes ago was now falling down. It almost fell down on their heads, but they stepped back and it landed in the grass at their feet. The spiders had broken through all of the remaining shards of glass and climbed down with their tiny legs down the white f _açade_ of the house. They were jumping now, jumping down, covering the grass and the bushes and almost John and Sherlock along with them. But Sherlock had already reached for John's hand again and didn't even look at him because he couldn't stop staring.

Now it was John's turn to shout, _"Run!"_  and they did, running and fleeing this lunatic scene without ever looking back.

 

Sherlock led them through narrow alleys and over stone and buildings where people would call after them and swing their fists in fury. It was like being a young boy again, and forgotten was the real danger behind the chase. John could pretend it was the foolish game of running for his life without actually having anything real to fear. Nothing real apart from losing. Not once did Sherlock let go of his hand this time, almost as if they were chained to each other, but John found that he didn't mind. It felt like something solid. Something to rely on. Because Sherlock Holmes, as it turned out, knew London like he would have a map of it pinned to the back of his own head. And he really could not imagine how the inside of this man's head had to look like.

_Endless. Eternal halls. Stuffed with knowledge._

Eventually, they both collapsed against a wall of dirty grey stone and dropped each others hands so suddenly as if they thought they were burning and setting each other on fire. For long moments the only sound around them in the alley was the sound of John panting heavily, and Sherlock showed his exhaustion by simply listening to him in silence.

Once he gained back some of the air in his lungs and his throat didn't feel entirely like sandpaper anymore, he gasped out with a raspy voice, "This was the most ridiculous thing … that I have ever done."

Sherlock seemed to consider that. "And you fought bloodsuckers."

They both laughed, partly because it truly sounded even more ridiculous to call them bloodsuckers and at the same time it obscured the horrors and dangers of the vampyre war. But John didn't even want to think about this. The rush of adrenaline hit him like a giant blast, and he didn't know how Sherlock's system worked, but he had to feel it, too. They were laughing and giggling like school boys. Forgotten was the crawling danger on eight legs coming after them, forgotten that someone got killed, that someone got left behind, a whole house invaded.

"I thought you knew what you were doing!"

Sherlock looked at him, almost offended by John's apparent stupidity. "I lived in a basement for weeks on end. When should I have had the time to study the blueprints of that bloody mansion?"

"Oh, I'd say you've had a lot of time, actually."

Sherlock opened his mouth to object to that, but when John caught a glimpse of the expression on his face (absolutely divine!), he burst out in another bout of laughter until his stomache hurt. He heard Sherlock join in somewhere in between, his rich voice filling the space around them, and at some point John had to hold his breath to finally stop himself.

By the time John could catch his breath again, a broad smile had spread all over his face and his cheeks positively _ached_ from it. "Oh, bugger," he said, partially joking, "I left my hat at the house. We have to go back."

"And your bag," Sherlock added.

"And my bag!"

"And the Woman's devotee."

"And the … wait. Oh God." The smile fell from John's face as soon as he noticed. "We left the maid behind! God, she will never make it out alive..."

"Nonsense. Of course she will. The spiders would never attack her, they are on the same side. The beasts are, in fact, able to distinguish between invader and ally."

"Alright." John decided to trust him and this statement. They could never go back there now anyway, even if they wanted to.

He looked up when he heard a noise next to him similar to a mechanic squeak, sounding nothing like any noise a human could make. To his surprise, when he turned his head to see what Sherlock was doing, he saw him holding his arm away from his body, stretching it out – the arm on which end there was no hand at all but a small revolver instead. John had almost forgotten about this. The revolver was drawing back into the arm and disappeared into a dark hole. Within a few seconds fingers and a palm emerged and recomposed themselves until the resulting hand was again the equivalent of his right hand.

"So since when can you do this?" John asked, not even shocked anymore. What shocked him more, though, was the answer he got.

"I have no idea. There seems to be a lot of useful information about this shell that I have yet to discover..."

It sounded barely as weird as it could have, coming from the detective's mouth. Mrs Hudson had not understated him in her tales at all. But now that he thought of her … Oh God.

"Come on now, Doctor, let's go and leave this place."

"What? Go where?"

John, torn away from his thoughts of Mrs Hudson who also worked with a maniac and a dead witch and still believed her tenant to be missing, had thought that maybe Sherlock would not need him anymore after he had successfully escaped from the prison that was Irene's basement. Apparently, Sherlock had other plans for him … And he didn't know if he ought to feel flattered.

"Town. I need to fetch some stuff. I cannot tolerate walking around like this anymore," he pointed to his dirty, now also ripped, trousers and the shirt that had been white once, but was now covered in brown and red stains, "People might be rather dim, generally speaking, but some can get suspicious very easily, especially when I am looking like a man begging by the poor. Also, I believe there are squished berries in places where squished berries truly do not belong."

John had to imagine this for a second and let out a laugh again at the look on Sherlock's face. Was he actually pouting? But thankfully, he finally got his act together for good this time and rubbed a hand over his face. He was still a bit moist from all the running and wiped his hands down his trousers. They were ruined now anyway.

"I can't join you, I- Oh, _goddamnit_ ," he moaned in agony as he remembered, "I have to get back to The Professor and-"

Sherlock chipped in, but both of them kept talking. "You work at The Prof?"

"Shit, shit, I can't go back, I killed his bloody employee! I killed my bloody patient!"

"This could be brilliant!"

While John started to panic, Sherlock turned towards him, trying to get him back to him, but the excitement in his expression was just a tiny bit disturbing. "You have to go back!"

"No, _you_ killed my bloody patient! God, I have sworn an oath!" But it wasn't clear if he was on the actual edge of anxiety or just extremely annoyed by both of them.

"Doctor, do calm down," Sherlock said and grabbed him by the shoulders again. "I told you, remember? The Woman cannot be killed through something as simple as a bullet to the head. It took me six days alone to conclude which chemicals I'd have to put together to mix the potion that would at least so much as cauterise her skin!"

John, or rather John's body, decided that for now it was the best option to trust the detective once more and he visibly calmed down by the minute. His breathing was still hard, but he was not as angry with him as he could have been. "If she is not dead, then where is she?"

"Who knows? But I am positive we will find out soon enough."

He let go of his shoulders and John felt oddly cold, despite Sherlock's hands being not even particularly warm. They seemed to have done something to him, or for him, however. He felt himself being less calm again, and he sniffed once to get rid of the feeling. Habit.

"Now!" Sherlock announced and the excitement in his face reappeared within the span of only a second as he clapped his hands. "You'll go to The Prof and say that you have cured her. If I am correct in my speculation of what happened to her, you should at least not be wrong about this. When you are finished, we will meet again and discuss how to proceed further."

Well, that was a surprise. It surely showed on John's open face.

"Oh, really?" Sherlock tilted his head and knitted his brows, probably to keep himself from rolling his eyes once more. "You thought I would simply abandon you, now that I got what I wanted? Whatever stories you might have heard of me, Doctor, I assure you I may not be a man of honour, but I am at least a man of logic. It would be highly illogical to send you away now, after I've seen of what you are capable. No, I won't let you go that easily."

There was the twinge of a thrill rushing through him from head to toe, making a stop around his chest and pressing there tightly. _Needed_ , was all he could think, and _purpose_. For a moment he could not breathe, for relief made it hard for him to swallow. Sherlock Holmes, the genuis (he had seen what he was capable of, as well, after all) wanted to see him again. No abandoning yet.

"So where," he breathed, then after he cleared his throat, "Where do we meet?"

"Oh, yes. Right, I forgot that you would hardly know. Too busy playing on the battlefield. The name's Sherlock Holmes, that much you have heard, and the address is 221B Baker Street."

"Alright."

He supposed that was where they parted ways for the time being. But just as he wanted to turn, already looking forward to a walk in peace to somehow process everything that had just happened to him, Sherlock called him back, baffled amusement in his voice.

"Er, Doctor?"

"Yes?"

"I believe you still have something of mine."

"What are you- Oh!" John felt his face heat up as he realised what he was still carrying with him. Careful to obtain a steady hand, he fished out the one of Sherlock's eyes that was not currently in his skull. _Weird_ , he thought, _how quickly one can get used to someone with a hole in his face_. But Sherlock had at no point appeared alarming to him – rather the opposite. He had saved him and had even looked frightened in between the moments of high danger and the chances of death. He had done all this with only one eye. What could he do with two of them?

He held out his palm like he had done before the organ had first been given to him, and Sherlock took it from him and put it back in its proper place, right above one sharp cheekbone. He blinked a few times and the pupil rolled from left to right until it was looking straight forward, like it should be. John had to admit that the sight of it might be slightly disgusting, but it was not as if he hadn't seen far worse.

"Ehm." John cleared his throat again. "Baker Street?"

Sherlock smiled a smile at him that pulled one corner of his mouth upwards. "Baker Street," he confirmed, then turned to leave him.

He shot one last glance at him, over his shoulder. "Good luck, Doctor."

And, coming from this man, it could only mean John would probably need it.

 

***

 

John still felt the thrill like a positive light spark, bulging inside of him and making his heartbeat quicken, his limbs restless. He had walked in any direction his gut had told him to go for the first few minutes after he and Sherlock had separated until he had more of a clue about where he was. Then he started running. He had no idea why he was running, nor where he wanted to go, just the vague plan of moving his legs, arms, getting rid of endless energy. Their escape had lit him up like a light bulb and now he didn't know what to do with himself.

_What was that? What happened back there? Who is this person? Who is Sherlock Holmes?_

All was sheer mystery to him, and he could not imagine finding the answers to any of them on his own in the near future. Not that he had minded. He was hoping their meeting later this day would, perhaps, make matters a little clearer to him, and he found himself looking forward to it with glee. He forced himself to get back to earth, not letting him get too lightheaded now.

Sherlock Holmes was, after all, and that much he believed to have understood, not a real person anymore. He was a machine, and whether that meant that only his shell had changed, how he had described it, or that he was just the copy of a dead man, John decided that at the moment it shouldn't matter a lot. Copy or not, he was impressed and felt himself being pulled in, wanting more. He was absolutely intrigued, and not even surprised by it. Only the day before he had let himself be persuaded by a female stranger to have a job interview, and now his potential future employer apparently scared the whole city and was, in fact, by some parties believed to be a criminal and murderer.

Seemed like something had finally happened to him. Brilliant.

And how did one refer to a cyborg consulting detective? Sherlock Holmes himself solely referred to John as _Doctor_. It was … nice, in a way. It was different. Although he had worked out John's prior occupation in an instant, he did not focus on this. Did not get tied up over the question of John Watson's moral grounds, or that he could be considered a murderer as well as a doctor. He had to have been dealing with those, too. With murderers. But he had not judged, had not even flinched. Value and quality was what mattered to him, neither social standings, nor questionable professions seemed to make a difference there. Not if you were good enough for him. John liked this mindset. He liked it rather a lot.

He remembered that he had forgotten his hat back at Irene Adler's place. He would probably never see it again, but even if he did, it didn't change the fact that, right now, he ears were freezing from all the running. That was when he realised that he was still running. He stopped abruptly and took a proper look around. With surprise, and with a wave of slight anxiety arising, he found that his body had carried him, entirely by itself, to the street opposite the building with the green sign and the golden letters.

_The Professor._

So even in the back of his head he knew that there was no turning back now. If he had the guts to be an accessory to murder, technically, and fleeing the scene with a more or less complete stranger who wasn't even human, he had to have the guts, too, to take responsibility for his actions. Or, as Sherlock would probably call it, to lie. Or not to lie? Sherlock had made sure to not actually tell him of his so-called speculation about what had happened to the Adler woman. Which meant John had to go in there empty-handed, armed with nothing but bad lies and hollowed out hope.

John knocked on the door with the two crystalline tigers, and after half a minute of waiting the door opened and a young man looked down at him. He was at least one head taller than John, had strikingly and quite icy blue eyes, short hair and broad shoulders. He was wearing a dark grey, woollen suit, there was a black and yellow striped tie around his neck, and a waistcoat and a light undershirt clung to his torso. The suit showed of the muscular shape. The grin on his face was too forced and his cold eyes didn't even try at all. In this moment, John wished it had been Mary to open the door for him, instead of whoever this was. He wanted to see himself as a man who did not prejudge, but the one who was currently blocking his way rather than inviting him in had to be the exception. He was so charmless, so unlikable to him within an instant.

"John Watson?" the man asked, with a voice that spoke of too much smoke in his lungs and too much whiskey down his throat.

 _Doctor_ , he wanted to add and involuntarily had to think of Sherlock again. Holmes, too, had eyes striking and blue and a unique voice of his own, but his smile was real and his presence was not threatening at all.

"You are being expected," he said, and this statement formed an uncomfortable clot in his stomach.

Did Moriarty know already? _How_ would he know?

The taller man bid him to follow him down the hall and John already felt as though he was familiar with this environment. At least familiar enough to be able to know the way without the help from a stranger. When they walked through the next door, the saloon was just as dark as he remembered it to be, and his eyes struggled in their attempt to see in the dim light. All the seats were empty – not open yet – and he could make out at least one person he knew and trusted more than most of the people he had met for the first time during these last few days.

Mrs Hudson was still wearing her purple dress and her hair was still curled and tawny, just like the last time he had seen her. He suddenly felt the strong urge to talk to her. A normal conversation, nothing hectic, nothing forced, nothing false. Just the two of them, sitting around a table and drinking their cups of tea, and maybe then he could finally understand, not everything, but some of what had happened to him. If he could only tell her that he had met Sherlock Holmes now, he would tell her that she was right. That he was brilliant, that he had a funny odd head, that he had saved him, could be good, better than good.

He knew he couldn't. Sherlock had not explicitly told him not to utter a word to Mrs Hudson. He clearly cared about her, or he would not have asked if she was alright. But John was able to relate to their relationship, and therefore he knew that, because he cared about her, she was not allowed to know. That was important to establish in order to keep her out of the danger. The danger that none of them could predict would come for them, haunt them. And if Sherlock should decide to tell Mrs Hudson where he had been, he should do so himself. This was not a decision John could or wanted to take from him.

Nevertheless, he was more than glad to see her. She had her back turned towards him, apparently in a conversation with someone that John didn't recognise yet, for Mrs Hudson was blocking his view. He didn't care that the man who had _escorted_ him had been given the task to bring him to Moriarty at once. John walked up to the woman that had not yet taken notice of him and tapped her on the shoulder, lightly.

"Hello again, Mrs Huds-"

She turned around in the midst of his greeting, and his face fell as if someone was being thrown off a cliff in front of him. He could finally see to whom she had been talking. And, by God, at the same time he couldn't see at all.

He simply couldn't believe his own eyes, his own mind, for that matter. It could not be true.

"Oh, hello John," Mrs Hudson said, cheerfully, but her smile faded a little as he noticed the distraught expression on his face. "Are you alright, dear?"

Right behind Mrs Hudson appeared a face once pretty to John, but now only the reminder of horrible memories, not older than an hour and still so fresh.

"Hello," the deep, sensual voice said in a way sounding seductive and through lips curved in a red smile looking devious only.

Irene Adler was looking at him with a fascination that could almost be considered innocent, but John knew _she acted, she acted, it was an act!_ She had to be burning internally, burning up with the desire to hurt him, kill him for what he had done. It was an act she mastered so well that if John would not tell himself every second anew that she would probably sick her nasty spiders on him if she only had the chance, he would have forgotten about it. That was how good she was. And if she could comfort him in the illusion that even her smile was innocent, she had to be truly dangerous.

"This is Ms Irene Adler," Mrs Hudson introduced needlessly, "It is always a highlight when she dances for us."

Irene held out her hand for him to take and her smile broadened. "Nice to meet you. Dr Watson, I believe?"

John felt sick. But, fortunately, before he could even begin to fight in two minds over playing along or not playing along, someone interrupted. The room went silent and the air felt suddenly colder, some of their vividness taken out of it, and instinctively John took a deep breath. The steps were heavy and clattering on the old floorboards. Everyone turned around.

The walking stick made him sound like he was either more than one person or three-legged, and even though he was neither, it still left a dominating impression. James Moriarty had entered the room and was walking straightly towards John. At first, he did not even seem to see him at all. He was looking past him, at something that was right behind him, and as he passed by, he left an icy aftertaste on John's bare skin and through his clothes.

"Ah, Sebastian!" he called out in a high and delighted tone.

 _Christian names seem to be quite the common way of referring to each other here_. Although, he could not rightly believe that everyone was knowing each other this well.

Moriarty stopped at the side of the man who had opened the door for John and only now he finally acknowledged everyone else's presence.

"Dr Watson! I really wouldn't have bargained for you to be back quite so early. And with such good results as well!"

_Results?_

His eyes were clearly pointing towards Irene Adler and the grin of his was rather to show teeth than to express true gratification. Irene's own aggravating smile was fairly honest compared to whatever he was doing. But it made John understand, at last.

_Ah. She is the result._

"Wonderful! I have to say, I never doubted you for a second, my boy!" he spoke to him in varying tones, all of them too over the never ending top because with him there were no too-highs or too-lows. Moriarty appeared to be nothing and everything at once, and all of it was equally disturbing.

He continued. "For that matter, I sent Mr Sebastian Moran here to bring you into my office. So that we can discuss what will now happen to you..."

Everything sounded like a threat coming from that mouth. Moriarty still stood next to – _Moran, was it?_ – and from the moment he had first spoken of him, one of his hands had found the back of Moran's neck and now he seemed to slowly stroke it, his eyes gleaming.

Suddenly, John couldn't take it anymore. All the smiles, all the pretences from all around him were slowly making him not only feel nauseated but nearly furious with the disgust of it all. It made him shiver and he clenched his hands into fists to suppress his abruptly emerging urge to punch someone, punch away the false smile. Preferably Moran's. He didn't know why.

"Yes, show me your office," he murmured between grinding teeth.

Moriarty brightened as suddenly as a chemical reaction that was never called for, but at last he was letting go of Sebastian Moran and gestured towards a dark corner, probably somewhere near the door to the office he was referring to. John desperately tried to cool down. Mrs Hudson's slightly pitiful smile did help a little, although he could have lived without the pity, thanks a lot.

When they walked past, John shot one last glance in the direction of The Woman, whose eyes were following them like that of a hungry lion. _Or a spider_ , as his mind was kind enough to add, and now the memory laid itself in front of his mind's eye. The way her very being had swifted and changed at the intervals of each half second. He shook himself once again and begged that no one had seen how his body was betraying him. But as he followed Moriarty towards whatever lay behind the black door, he heard Mrs Hudson and Irene resuming their talk and the steps of Moran slowly retreating to wherever he had come from.

He was alone with Moriarty. About to put his head into the mouth of the spider. Into battle.

 


	6. The Questions of Humanity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Until now he had simply believed that Sherlock's former body had looked just alike him, but now he wasn't so sure. Maybe the illusions were misleading him in so many ways more than he had imagined. Maybe it was all just a constructed web of lies that fooled him. Maybe, just maybe, he found he didn't care in the slightest._
> 
>  
> 
> Baker Street is a charming but odd place to be, but it fits Sherlock perfectly, as John finds. He is there, first and foremost, to get answers, although he cannot deny that it wasn't also the detective himself that wakes a deep fascination and addiction within him.

It was not as bad as John would have expected it to pass off. Whatever it was he had expected, it was over far sooner than estimated and hurt far less than he had feared.

In the end, they did, in fact, mostly talk about the conditions of his employment, what could be asked of both parties and what could not. Now that John actually knew what it would mean for him to work here and what he was expected to do, he realised he was a bit … not disappointed, that would be ludicrous. It was just that, since he had heard of Moriarty being this criminal mastermind, he had reckoned on slightly different conditions to be considered for the work that was to be done. For example, the ability of keeping quiet. Or maybe his tolerance for corpses and their disposal and not asking questions. But no, nothing of that sort.

It was already clear to him, though, that this job would offer him a lot more variation and action than simply being in the clinic all day and treating flu. Also, according to Sherlock him working there was _brilliant,_ as he had called it, presumably because that way they could keep an eye on Moriarty's activities, or at least tell themselves so.

_They? Them? A team?_

Moriarty kept him at The Professor for some hours after he had signed the contract, so he could already learn the ropes a little. Thankfully, he didn't see Irene Adler again this day. Instead he met Tessa who had somehow managed to twist her hand during a rehearsal a few hours ago. She let John have a look and his advice was cooling it, secretly thinking that maybe Kitty had one or two justifications for treating her like a child – she could be quite clumsy when it came to … moving her body in general, he supposed.

John felt a bit stupid about it, but despite being fairly occupied with running around, being introduced to all the other dancers who were there today, dismissed this injury and that injury, for it was, in fact, just a broken nail or a mild bruise, his mind would always shift back thinking about his mysterious detective and what he could be doing right now. Having some fun on his own?

It was so odd to think that before yesterday he hadn't even heard of him, familiar with the name only because he had read it in a newspaper article. And now, one day later, he had freed him from the basement of a woman of witchcraft, something he had neither really believed nor not believed in, and worked at the same place as the detective's landlady. He, of all people in London who had to know Sherlock Holmes far better than he did, was now the one to bear his darkest secret. It was unclear to him yet if this was honourable and if that meant he was special somehow, or if this would turn out to be the end of him.

By the time John had grabbed his jacket (and also searched for his hat for a little too long until he remembered that he would probably never see it again) Mrs Hudson had come up to him and took his hand in both of hers in a sort of incredibly fond handshake.

"You did so well today, dear! I'm so glad you are a part of this now. Employing a doctor was long overdue, you would not believe how often bad luck lurks behind corners around here!"

John was exhausted from all the new faces and being on his feet for so long, not being used to it anymore, but he was still gleaming at her praise. She was too kind to be _a_ _part of this_ as well, and he could only hope that whatever was going to happen to all of them in this battle he was still so clueless about, still did not know how to fight in, nothing would happen to this woman. She was exactly what he had always wanted to protect when he had been out there, facing death over and over and over.

He remembered now that she also had to live at Baker Street and that made the smile on his face vanish at once. Sherlock wanted him to meet him at his flat when both of them were ready and if Mrs Hudson was going home now as well, she would certainly become very suspicious. No, they could not leave together. "Erm, are you going home as well?"

"Oh no!" She huffed out a sigh and a laugh. "There is still a lot to do for me before we open. This is going to be fun for you tomorrow, Dr Watson. Your first proper day here! One of the best thing about working here is that you get to enjoy a free show full of dancing and magic every night. Some tricks are going to take your breath away!"

 _I migh have had enough of breathtaking for an entire week already, but thanks_ , he thought, adjusting the smile anew.

So they were not leaving together. _Great_.

"Looking forward to this then. Good day, Mrs Hudson." He took his leave and kissed one of her hands that had still held one of his, whereat she giggled and wished him well.

 

The ride in the cab felt oddly quiet after the hustle and bustle of a day he already mentally bid goodbye to, as well as to the sights of London that where passing by. He was so insignificant in between all this movement, all these crowds, all the _people_. And yet, he wanted to reach his destination more than he could remember wanting anything else for weeks, maybe months now. _221B Baker Street._ As he had passed the address on to the cabbie, the man had looked at him as though he was accusing him of attempting to kill off one of his horses or even steal his whole cab with only his eyes. So whether this was simply the common reaction to the address of England's only consulting detective or if it was the reaction that had to be expected if one was planning to pay a visit to the flat of a supposedly dead man, the evening was certainly going to be very interesting.

The cab drove off, seemingly in a hurry as soon as John got out, and now he was standing in front of a dark green door of a light, rather modern building, approximately three floors high. The numbers on the door were standing out rather charmingly, for they were shining golden in the warm light of a setting sun. He was at Baker Street. This was 221B.

 _221_ B _? It had the B on the door?_ John was wondering, then chuckling about what it said about the inhabitant and his reputation and then thinking to himself that he really ought to read the papers more often. If the B was on the door, Mrs Hudson either had to be a very generous woman or Sherlock Holmes was even more famous then he had realised until now. But a private detective had to get his clients to find him somehow, he supposed.

He was about to use the doorknocker, which was also golden but slightly less shiny than the numbers above, when he noticed that the door was already open a gap. A bit dumbfolded he stared at the open door for a moment, then looked around. No one to be seen. After he had made sure that he didn't look like an intruder, although, strictly speaking, intruding was exactly what he was about to do, he pushed the door open further and finally walked up the stairs until he was standing in a dark hallway.

The only light source came from above, out of dirty windows, and it drew John's gaze immediately to the upper spiral staircase. It would only be logical for the tenant's flat to be upstairs. (On the other hand, it would also be more logical for the tenant's flat number not to be on the front door.) However, before John could even decide to try and go for it, he heard the signs of life from the floor above, and that pretty much confirmed it.

Following the music, he felt like he was entering another world by going up the stairs, and he was thrown out of this illusion a little each time a stair beneath him creaked too loudly. The music of the delicate instrument never stopped ( _violin?_ ) and John enjoyed letting himself be floated away on soft, feathery notes, reaching tones sounding like sweet howling, down again to vibrating hums, all contributing to the masterpiece of a symphony, executed by only one instrument, four strings and a bow. John thought he was hearing the piece not for the first time in his life. It sounded quite familiar to his ears, but his head could make nothing more of it.

Just as he had reached the last of seventeen stairs, the music slowly died out on a single note, ending it beautifully. He wasn't sure if he should knock. He did it anyway, and then pressed the door open with caution, opening for his eyes to take in the large living space. The room was illuminated by two high windows, almost touching floor and ceiling both, and from one of them he saw Sherlock retreating, putting the violin down on one of the two arm chairs that stood in front of an unlit fireplace like old companions. There was a sofa on the other side of the wall, a small table and on it there was a chaotic pile that consisted of various newspapers and open letters. Maybe John should overthink his intent to read the papers more often...

"Come in, Dr Watson, the kettle's just boiled."

In the next moments of looking around the room he incidentally noticed a few plants standing around, some looking more alive than others, the head of a horned animal hanging from a wall ( _deer?_ ) and a gramophone in another corner. In and on itself the room was stuffed and chaotic, but had its very own and undeniable colour of charm that woke a quiet humming within his bones.

Sherlock had disappeared behind the corner, and as John followed him he was astounded that the rooms were even bigger than he had expected. Around the corner the living room led to a kitchen, or at least it looked like the vague idea of a kitchen, with tumblers, test tubes, rakes and flasks all over it. It reminded him a lot of what he had seen within the shelves of Irene's basement, only with slightly less disturbing contents. Although … were these _human thumbs_ in that jar?!

"Uhm..." John forgot what he had wanted to say, a bit taken aback by the place Sherlock would probably call a home. And well, generally speaking it was even quite cosy. Just a bit much clutter and odds around to get used to first.

Suddenly, Sherlock started to rush through the kitchen a bit too eagerly, putting aside a few of the glasses and placing a beautiful white teacup and saucer on the bit of table he had just cleared of its messy anarchy. "I believe I could-" he started, still walking from left to right to make the space appear a little less crammed. "-perhaps clean up a bit."

He was wearing a dressing gown in a creamy shade of brown, which looked as expensive as all his other clothes. Only now John noticed that he had changed his wardrobe completely since he had last seen him. His clothes were not dirty or ripped anymore, and not in a state that would ever be associated with someone who had spent the last few weeks locked up in someone else's basement. The dark trousers and the white dress shirt he was wearing clung to his skin and could not be anything but tailored.

Finally, Sherlock stood still again and tried very obviously to look as though he had not just wacked out for a moment because he feared John would judge him for his habits. It was rather endearing, to be honest, and he let out a chuckle beneath a huff. "No, it's- it's fine. I was only wondering … Can you even drink tea?"

For a second, Sherlock looked as if in agony and John thought he had said something wrong.

"No. But you can."

"Oh. Yeah," John replied lamely. Had Sherlock deduced that he had indeed fancied some tea? How had he even known he was coming?

"I heard the cab you took here," he explained as if he had read his mind. (And who knew if he hadn't by now?) "There are nearly no more hansom cabs that would come to a halt just by my front door, and by the time the horse's hooves were slowing down, I knew it could only be you. I went down to open the front door, so you would not draw too much attention visiting this address in particular, dashed back up to start the kettle and had almost exactly enough time left to finish my interpretation of Wagner's Bridal Chorus until you arrived."

Once again John was left gaping and that in itself had to be a huge compliment for Sherlock already (well, he had mentioned it was not the reaction he was usually expecting from people), for he started smiling broadly immediately after he looked him over and then held up the mug for him. "Tea?"

John nodded, still trying to wrap his head around the man's cleverness. It was a bit obvious that he was doing some of it on purpose. (Playing the violin like an angel for John's arrival, for example – a Wagner interpretation, _oh please!_ ) When he had referred to his Science of Deduction earlier, John had not quite understood what was meant by that, but he slowly seemed to get the idea of it. Furthermore, the detective's ability to _deduce_ him was just as impressive as his other apparently high-functioning senses. Which made him question how much of these superhuman qualities might have always been a part of Sherlock and which were only a mixture of high technology and internally controlled manipulation. Also, if Sherlock would even know or remember it if the latter was the case.

Sherlock set the cup, along with freshly brewed tea and its saucer, on the side table next to one of the armchairs. It was the one standing on the left side of the fireplace, so opposite the chair that he had put his violin on. Now he was carefully placing it into its rightful case, fingers gentle and considered as if he was holding a newborn. John could not help but think that he had beautiful hands, as strange and curious as that sounded. Hands made to play such sentient instruments.

He would have very much liked to enter the room before the piece of music had ended, so he could have been able to see him, witness him. Long fingers caressing the strings and the bow stroking them as gently as he was now holding the fiddle itself. Would he play with his eyes sharp and focused, gaze stoic and concentrated, thinking? Or would he let his eyes fall close, all at ease with the instrument, himself and the world, thinking about nothing at all and turning off the gears in his racing mind for a few minutes?

But enough of this now, he told himself, shaking his head. This was not about him, and such thoughts were inappropriate for a lot of reasons and in a lot of ways. These weren't his real hands, not his own fingers, and he had to remind himself of this. These were the same hands that could transform themselves into loaded revolvers, the same arms he could simply unscrew whenever he pleased, and the stunningly blue eyes the same he could just take out and place into John's palm if he found it useful. This was not a man at all. It was nothing more than a gracile illusion.

Sherlock finally sat down, and John took his cup of tea in hand to indicate he was ready to listen to him. There was a brief pause and silence in the room, only filled with the rustling of clothes as Sherlock adjusted himself in his chair and crossed his long legs in front of him. He cleared his throat, apparently not really knowing how to start this. It struck John as odd that he would have trouble finding words, but maybe the matter was a lot more personal to Sherlock than he had let on earlier.

"So, as you know," he started, looking at him with a straight face, "I am, at the moment present, not a part of the human kind with which you are familiar. I am being kept alive inside of this body consisting of mechanics and a technology too complicated for the common minds of the dull."

John pursed his lips, taking a sip of his tea and regretting it immediately when his tongue felt numb from the hot liquid.

"Oh, don't let your face paint such sourness, Doctor. I will admit I haven't fully understood either how I can possibly be alive at this point. You may have noticed my surprise at what I could do with this new form of transport. What I can still learn, what I can _sense_!" His voice raised as well as his eyes, which began to jump from one point in the room to the other like there was a horse race going on right behind John. The enthusiasm was obvious in his whole manner of speaking as he continued. "Imagine, for instance, how it would be if we all possessed the ability to create this for ourselves. This, something so much more, so much greater, being able to simply replace what we don't need and keep advancing and- oh, marvellous!"

John looked at him with skepticism written over all his features and screaming to be heard, but the detective was too lost in his own words. He seemed to be not too far off from from the cliché of the maniac scientist, and somehow John felt a sicker sort of bulge growing inside his stomach. He didn't understand how one could think about life like this. Calling it something that was to be advanced, that was _replaceable._ Not to value the gift that had been given to humanity, the gift of being healthy and loved. Suddenly, he asked himself if one would start taking up this kind of mad mindset when one didn't know what it was like … Being valued, loved. Only knew what it was like to be alone. And then he wondered why he still thought about the importance of a human life in this world, for he wasn't special at all, and he was himself _so alone_.

Sherlock could not think of the benefits of this, could he? What that had to be like, not feeling alive? Not having flesh, nor bone, nor cells or a heart. Being an engine. But now John was reminded of something else.

_Heartless?_

"Okay, alright. Maybe calm there a little."

Sherlock looked as confused as he looked offended for a second, and John gulped. "You, uhm, you said that, uh, Moriarty stole your heart? What did he want with it?"

"Hmmh." Sherlock let out one of his deep rumbles and leant forward in his chair. His elbows were placed on the armrest and his hands rested underneath his chin as he looked past John again, into the void where he seemed to gather all of his thoughts. "That is the question." He paused. "I know what I am. To him."

John gave him a questioning look, and Sherlock's gaze shifted towards him again, one eyebrow raised. "An experiment," he concluded, as if it should have been obvious.

"An experiment? On a human being?"

"Oh _Doctor._ Surely you cannot be that naive. In the military, what do you think people do? Experiments are crucial to gain the upper hand in a battle."

John knew about this briefly, of course, but he had always tried to ignore what was being played out behind closed curtains. Had always tried to tell himself _No, not us, the war for human nature cannot rely on human sacrifices,_ but of course it did. In the end, when operators thought that every alternative had been taken from them, human lives always had to be measured by what they were estimated to be worth. And still.

"This cannot simply be what people do."

"I am afraid that, for now, it must."

There was a moment of shared melancholy where none of them could remember how to breathe, holding their gazes upon each other, and there was an equal understanding for what could only be left unspoken in the space between them. An understanding, flickering between both their armchairs, the carpet, the mirror in which none of their forms were mirrored, and Sherlock's eyes were saying it all.

_I know, I know, it's unfair. Justice is what the world needs now._

When John took a deep breath, he was surprised by how much it felt like he was coming back to life at first. "Hold on. Are you saying he wanted you to be involved in a battle?"

He leant forward further still and his hands wandered in front of his lips, index fingers touching cupid's bow. "Think about it. What else could be more effective? Immortal soldiers controlled by an external force? He can design them, he can replace them should they break, for they are dead already. The ultimate weapon. All he needs is a functioning brain and a soul..."

"But what for?" John put his cup down on the side table before he could spill the tea and burn his lap due to sudden infuriation and then raised his voice. "What on earth would Moriarty need an army of cyborg soldiers for? What war is there for him that he is trying to win?"

Something struck him, then, and he was not sure if this thought was one that should be thought to the end. If he would only consider … The war that he knew best, the one that he had fought in himself, the _one_ war fought in secret that it would be worth building an army for in secret would be... _Exactly_. So could it be that perhaps James Moriarty, the possible criminal mastermind, was actually, in a very questionable and twisted way, on their side? An idea to save the people of London and win this war that could only come true after lots of people had to be murdered first. _Like an operator without an alternative?_

He got pulled out of his own train of thoughts by another of Sherlock's statements that his mind had grasped only now. "Wait, what did you say?" A brain _and_ a soul? Everything was far too much over his head already, too much, or maybe too simple even, for him to comprehend. "So you've still got your brain then?"

Sherlock tilted his head and crooked a smile while he was giving him a _look_. One of the looks that John had already learned only meant _oh please_ , which was the nonverbal equivalent to what he was about to say. "How else would I still be so clever?"

His face turned more serious, though, and when he spoke again, his voice was lower and somehow softer, as if he was gaining more patience with him. "Yes, this is one of the conditions. The brain is the most high-functioning engine currently accessible to us. There is no machine more intelligent and more complex than a human brain. Extract it and establish new connections similar to nerve cells, there you have a whole and fully developed complex, capable of learning and independent thinking, of storing memories, ideas. Never has it been easier to recreate a human."

"No, no, no," John interfered. "But these are not human. There is more to a human being than the ability to think, is there not? You cannot just throw together a few odds and ends, bit of gears and cogs and create life!"

Sherlock frowned at him for a second before he visibly had to gather his patience with him anew. "No offence taken by that, _Doctor_. Of course, there is a lot more to being human than owning a functioning brain. Good Lord, are there many who possess the organ only for the echoes in their heads to not deafen their inner ears! But would you not say that your theory made any form of medical treatment just as wrong, just as unethical?" The colour in his eyes went from clouded grey to roaring blue, gleaming somehow, despite the mild light of the setting sun. "I told you to think about it, did I not? Now, consider it – really consider it! It is not human in itself, because it comes with a greatness and the ability to _advance_. This, you should be scared of. This is what is feared. I, controlled by my own thoughts and my own brain, can function and I can learn how to enhance myself. And is that not disconcerting?"

John didn't have to think about it for long to get a sour taste of what he was going at. "Imagine if a whole army could do it," he whispered.

"Exactly!"

He picked up the cup again without even looking in its direction, not caring for how hot the tea was that was flowing down his throat in big gulps, and as he placed it onto the saucer again, the porcelain clattered sorely. He strived to draw his full attention back to Sherlock again, but he wasn't even sure what to make of all the information that he had given him up to now – not to think of all that was about to follow.

"There is a weakness with him, however. Moriarty's plan and his … sluggishness as a scientist, if you will, has its own conditions. It is a requirement to everything he is and needs, and thus, something we can use to prevent this evil plot from happening."

Sherlock's dramatic way of describing the danger had John being all ears. He was still absolutely fascinating to him, and he wished he knew what this was all about. The way he was sitting, the way he was moving, the cleverness of him. The long legs, now enfolded and spread in front of him, svelte fingers under his nose, this pair of blue eyes shining bright. There was a seriousness to him and to the situation, but it could not be missed how much in his element Sherlock Holmes seemed to be.

Finally, he expounded. "He needs the victims first. He needs their bodies, for whatever reason he appears to need the hearts, and, for now, he will need their brains to be alive."

"For now? You say that as though you thought there could be alternatives. In the future."

"Of course!"

"But you..." John was a little lost for words, giving him a humourless half smile, "you cannot create life without life. How could there be alternatives?"

"Because thinking, my Doctor, should never be about the package which denses and holds said thoughts together. Because thinking should not be tied to the origin or source of its owner. Thoughts are something to be influenced, to be comprehended, and would it not be contradictory, I wonder, if it was conditional for the brain to be created by Nature herself or another thinking party? Should the value and acknowledgement of a thought not be measured by its content instead of the question if it has been generated by something with the consistency of cold porridge or not?"

Now that reduced John to utter speechlessness. There was such a logic in those words that he could not think of a single argument to object to it, and by God, he was sure he wouldn't even want to if he could. John had always believed that the value of a human life wouldn't be exceeded by anything. That there could be nothing more exceptional, nothing more worth saving. All this time he had never thought to ask himself what that even meant, to be human. To be _alive_.

Machines can only be programmed to work on behalf of logic and logic alone. Sherlock did not act like a machine. The way his face revealed just the slightest bits of emotion, the sole fact that he even wanted to hide those emotions, thought he would have to appear colder, bursted with the sentiment of the act itself. John knew it. He had seen it, had seen him caress his violin. There was no logic in that, none at all.

"Do you feel alive?" he asked quietly, not wanting to risk blemishing a question of such sensitivity with a voice too loud or too harsh, to not make Sherlock feel in any way pressed. He didn't know, but found himself desperately wanting to know what it was like for him, what he felt, thought about having been slaughtered and exploited, being out of his body but still in his own mind.

Sherlock seemed to consider this for a while. It was not a long while, but the seconds appeared to pass as slowly as that of a broken clock. John didn't even dare to blink, watching this angular face closely while Sherlock's eyes were closed. There were a few wrinkles, placing themselves around the closed lids and between his drawn brows, almost building a bridge above his dainty nose. The gap between his full lips narrowed and dissolved into a straight line when he pressed those lips together, and John eyed him in fascination, for when he opened them again there was a soft _pop_ like a new idea had sprung free.

The room was filled with the rumbling baritone, warming him up like the taste of hot tea with a splash of milk. "Flesh and bones do not define me. It is the thoughts, the memories, the _knowledge_ that allows mind to survive even while body succumbs. Leave me to my life without sheer breath and blood, for I am more, I exist, I am the monarch of my human mind." When he opened his eyes, they focused on John with the intensity of a rising sun. There was so much more in this gaze.

"And with this I have to go as far as to enlighten you again, Dr Watson, and ask you this: is the man not in the mind rather than in the transport that forms around him? Willing to enlighten you again and tell you that what holds it all together, and what brings all that to life in this new shell of mine, is a soul. This is what he couldn't take from me. And maybe the soul is bound to be where it belongs."

Sherlock drifted in his thoughts and shifted in his seat, restless, and John could only watch in endless marvel as the speed of his words was increasing by the minute. "This is the very difference, the core of every difference that ever existed, between me and a machine, for the soul must be the obvious and unique medium. Always complemented by the heart, they are apart now, separated like tragic lovers, so what am I then? Perhaps, it is not so black and white."

John thought he could feel a shiver running down his spine, from his neck to the small of his back, and his body felt numb. How this man could astound him, could make him lose all of his carefully gathered words, was an utter mystery to him. There was a whole new world opening below his feet and it was foreign ground he was moving on. Question over question running through his head like the head itself thought it was an engine now. Did one really have to be born and created by nature or did the form not matter at all?

The concept was so new, so confusing that it was actually the simplest thing in the world to understand. Maybe it was the very simplicity of it that made it so very confusing. He had understood every word Sherlock had said to him during the last five minutes, but comprehending them was a whole other task altogether. And while John did believe in the existence of souls, it had never been a concept of something materialistic, never something to _touch_. Let alone something that could make the conscious decision to move to where it was needed best. (Was that not what Sherlock was trying to say?)

But if all of this had made anything clearer to John, it was that he was now sure about the answer to another question he had not been able to come up with earlier.

He bent forward in his chair and held out his hand in a silent gesture. Sherlock only looked at him with a rather dumbfounded expression on his face, and after everything he had just made John speechless with, this was an oddly satisfying thing to see.

"John," he said, still waiting for the detective to take his hand.

Sherlock more or less got the hint now and reached out for the hand in reluctance. " … Yes?"

"It doesn't have to be as official as _Dr Watson_. Just … John."

His eyes widened now, and eventually softened when it finally seemed to sink in. "Sherlock," he offered in kind.

And that was the answer to the question to the form of address.

Fingers wrapped around palms, and they shook hands once and stilled. The air in the room was gone, it seemed. Emptied of oxygen like those two joined hands in front of the fireplace were a vacuum pump, sucking the gases into an invisible black hole. He had held his whole arm in his hands, without the man himself attached to it – even one of his eyeballs – but somehow this was different. Sherlock was looking John in the eye with open interest written all over his features. _Interest in … what exactly?_

He was glaring back at him, took in the high cheekbones and the perfect structure of his face, so different and yet aesthetic in a way he could not explain. He could not quite believe that someone like this should have existed before, because how could anyone look like this? Until now he had simply believed that Sherlock's former body had looked just alike him, but now he wasn't so sure. Maybe the illusions were misleading him in so many ways more than he had imagined. Maybe it was all just a constructed web of lies that fooled him. Maybe, just maybe, he found he didn't care in the slightest.

They had yet to let go of each others hands. _Again_. He had no idea why this should be so difficult. John only knew that he was still fascinated, still wondered about the warmth and steadiness of those gracile fingers around his own. _How? How could they be warm?_ It raised another question he would not dare asking out loud yet. _What did he feel?_ Could he feel the sensation of skin on not-quite-skin, the squeeze and the thin layer of sweat that was slowly moisturising John's palm?

It was a moment almost too magical to let it pass. There was something in Sherlock's eyes – something he felt oddly connected to, and something that sparked in the slowly recurring air around them. One last shake and they let go. John realised his tea had gone cold.

"So … Moriarty?" John asked roughly, attempting to draw his focus back to the main problem at hand. This one, highly important problem.

"Yes," Sherlock said, a little too huskily and then cleared his throat out of habit. "Yes. I explained that … ehm. I explained that there was one significant weakness to him and his plans. He has to keep murdering, or hire people to do it for him. Since we know that these inevitable conditions have to be met first before he can create more subjects like me, we can find a way to prevent it and destroy his network from the inside out."

"Prevent those murders, you mean?"

"Oh, I wouldn't doubt for a second that he already slaughtered. This will not only be about preventing murders. It is also about solving the crimes he has committed in the past. About finding the victims and where he keeps the dead bodies. And about..." He stopped, suddenly worried that he might have said too much.

"Finding your heart?" John concluded. He could feel the heart then. Not in its absence, nor in its presence, but rather in its sole existence out there, _somewhere_. Beating.

"Unfortunately, I was not able to figure out yet what he needs the hearts for. This is why we need to find mine. Even if it could be beating in someone else's chest. This is of highest importance."

John had no doubt that it was certainly about this for Sherlock. But just as much as it had to be about taking back what was to be forever his. Something unique and irreplaceable. No one liked thieves, and no one would accept giving someone else the satisfaction of taking the heart out of them. And perhaps, there was even more to it for Sherlock, and John just couldn't see it yet.

"We cannot do that alone, of course," Sherlock said as if he expected John to know that.

"You have any allies?"

"Oh, yes." He tipped his chin up, almost proudly.

"Do I know-" John started, but then he interrupted himself, already knowing the answer to this. Of course he wouldn't. Not only had he not been to this city in ages – he had not even heard of Sherlock Holmes before yesterday – but he was sure that if Sherlock had allies, they would be so good at hiding that even if John had seen them once, he would not have been able to tell.

"You will. Tomorrow."

So they were really in it together now. John had not only been a means to an end to Sherlock. Or maybe he had, in the beginning, but something that he had done had changed the detective's mind.

"Alright then. Tomorrow."

That would give John at least a bit more time to think everything through more or less properly and finally think about what he had gotten himself into. Absentmindely, he reached out for the cup again and when the drink slipped between his lips, he scowled because the cold tea was unexpected and seemed to taste much more bitter now. Sherlock tilted his head and threw a nonverbal question in his direction, to which John only answered with a low hum in his throat.

"I will make you a new one."

Now he had gone up and took the mug from John's hands before he could even think of protesting. With Sherlock not sitting opposite him in the armchair anymore, he seemed to see the large window behind the chair for the first time now. All of a sudden, he startled.

It was utterly dark outside by now. The stars were not visible yet, but only just because the sky still changed to darker shades of blue to make them shine brighter, and the clouds shoved each other around to hide the low hanging moon. Full moon was one of the only sources of light that was illuminating the room now, and John was so confused. How could he not have noticed? (Had Sherlock somehow shone bright enough through … what? Brilliancy only?)

He had no idea what the time was, but he was sure that if he wanted to not fall asleep in the clinic again, he should probably go home soon. Sooner or later he would have to quit his job at the clinic anyway, but there was an odd feeling in his gut about the new job at The Professor and how probable it actually was that he could keep it for long. After all, they were planning to operate against his new employer.

"No," Sherlock said, apparently having read his mind as he pressed the newly filled cup into his hand, mindful of letting him grab the handle, so he would not burn his skin.

"No?" he asked, looking into his cup. Earl Grey with a splash of milk.

"You won't go home tonight."

"Why not?"

"Because it doesn't make sense. And I don't like nonsense."

"Why wouldn't it-"

Sherlock let out a long-suffering sigh. "Tomorrow you will go to work, to your clinic in the morning and to The Prof in the afternoon. Both are relatively close to Baker Street, closer than to what I assume the location of your cheap flat would be. So you will stay here overnight. My bedroom is free, I don't require sleep anymore. You can eat breakfast at the little coffee house next door. I wouldn't even mind joining you, though I also don't eat, but we could go over the schedule for tomorrow."

Before John had even processed everything Sherlock had just said (what he could deduce and know of him!), his voice was raising on its own account and the words were slipping out and he could not hold them in. "Alright. Yes, why not?" He blinked a few times and there was another unprocessed question rising up. "But how-"

_How can it be that you want me here?_

"How did I deduce it? Please, it was pretty obvious," Sherlock interfered, "After we separated, I met a few of my Irregulars who provide me with information while they remain unseen. It was even easier, this time, to meet them in public, for I was looking rather _irregular_ myself. By the time I had gathered a new wardrobe, they had gathered enough new information, including information about you. I knew, of course, that you are currently also working at a clinic near Brook Street. Obviously, you wouldn't have quitted your job there yet, so you will go there first tomorrow. And yes, obviously you would have a cheap flat located farther away from Central London. You were sent home from war and the Order might be generous, but not too generous, are they not? Any further questions?"

Tea abandoned, John already fearing it would go cold again. "Only one."

Sherlock cocked a brow at him, waiting.

"What can you drink then, if you can't drink tea? Engine oil?"

He just blinked at him for long seconds of silence, and then they both burst into laughter.

Among all the graveness and horrors of all the terrible things out there that were breathing down John's neck every single minute he was awake and aware, there was a thin silver lining on the horizon now. It was ridiculous, really, and childish to laugh in this absolutely absurd situation, and John had rarely felt greater relief and freedom.

 

They continued to sit in their armchairs and talk for hours into the night. Sherlock had lit up the fire in the chimney between them and it warmed John's feet and bathed the room in a soft light. It defined Sherlock's features in a way that reminded him of how he had met him first, ruffled hair and angularly lit bones, not even twelve hours ago. It already felt like half a lifetime had passed.

They clearly tried to distract themselves a little from the threat that lay ahead of them. Their conversation headed in very different and interesting directions, from John's reasoning for joining the knighthood and later the Order to Sherlock's first engagement with science, how he had become interested in the matters of chemistry and in how far this had proven to be a great advantage for his detective work. They also drifted in a few darker corners sometimes. For example how it had felt for John to kill his first man and how it was even scarier when it got ever easier. Sherlock tried to understand this better by comparing it to how deducing a crime scene had become more and more of a routine to him.

It was almost like there were a few but rather huge bags full of worries and anxiety lifted off both their chests, just by talking to each other. But it was also so much more. They were rare, those moments, but once they happened John knew exactly that he would never in his life forget a night like this. Sitting together by the fireplace with a half-man, half-robot who he had only met on the very same day, a fire calmly flickering between them, and drinking tea. Later, because Sherlock had asked if he wanted some, John swapped the tea for a glass of red wine. _Just to fall asleep faster_ , he swore to himself. Sherlock asked if he could have a sip, _Just for the taste_ , he said, and John was not quite sure if Sherlock could be certain this would not be dangerous for him. He decided that it didn't matter when the cyborg let the first drops slip between his lips, looking more human than he ever had with his eyes closed and an expression of pleasure rushing over his whole face.

John was convinced that it had to be the wine talking out of him that had made his mind hazy and tired as he looked at him and thought that _God, he is a beautiful marvel._ And he could taste and he could feel and his fingers could be warm, sometimes, however inexplicable all of this appeared to be.

Before he decided to take Sherlock's offer from earlier and make his way into his bedroom to turn in for the night, somehow he remembered that he still wanted to clear up a matter before morning would break.

"Uh, Sherlock?" He turned around, already halfway into the hall that lead to the bedroom.

"Yes, Doctor," Sherlock said, having his back turned towards him to look out of one of the windows.

"About Mrs Hudson..."

That made him turn around abruptly. "What about her?"

"Will you tell her? That you are alive … ish?"

He was yet again blaming the wine added to the exhaustion for his inability to articulate himself more clearly. Fortunately, Sherlock did not comment on it.

"I will tell her when the right time has arisen. She has turned in already, so she is unaware that we are in the flat. I would prefer you leaving her in the dark about the activity in this household for a bit longer still."

"Alright," John replied, accepting this.

He was finally about to make his way to the bedroom, but there was one last thing he was unsure about. "Uhm, I don't have-"

"Take one of my dressing gowns for the night. Wardrobe to the left, even you should be able to see them. Fold your clothes for tomorrow. I have nothing tailored in your size here, so you will need your own clothes to look presentable."

" ... Thank you."

Sherlock had turned around again, hands behind his back. "Goodnight, Doctor. _John_."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're finally at Baker Street! This is one of my absolute favourite chapters so far. It's a pleasure to write those two together, I swear. (Also the topic of life and death is very fascinating to me, as well.)  
> Thanks for reading and commenting and (hopefully) enjoying this story with me up to here. It means a lot!


	7. The Breakfast Plot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John cannot be sure as to what would happen next, but he would go where Sherlock leads him. Which is, for now, to a cafe to have breakfast with him.

John woke up not knowing where he was. Not a single nightmare had dared to pay him a visit during the night. Admittedly, it had only been a rather short night for him. But either had he imagined it and played it in his mind from memory or there really had been the soft tunes of a violin rising and falling, lulling him through a slumber uninterrupted by the war he still fought in his head.

In exchange for the calmness of the night, perhaps to maintain something of a universal balance, he woke up sitting bolt upright and sweating as a silent cry died at the top of his tongue. When he tried to swallow, his throat felt as dry as a desert and he desperately craved for his oasis. He looked around. The room felt unfamiliar but definitely inhabited. That much was obvious from the furnishing alone, and from what was hanging on the walls. Certificates, tables and even ripped out news articles seemed to be as personal as this inhabitant wanted his room to appear, but it already painted a story. It could only be the room of Sherlock Holmes.

John remembered now.

Sherlock had let him sleep in his bedroom, for he himself did not need sleep. He had probably been in the living room all night (playing the violin?) and made his plans. It was likely that he would be grateful for some hours alone after this eventful day he had spent with John. He did not seem to be around people a lot. Or perhaps this was why it was just the other way around, and all the time he had been forced to suffer practically imprisoned needed to be made up for by company now. But John decided that, however the answer, he should at least be grateful that he had offered him a place to sleep, so he hadn't had to drive back to his own flat. This would have taken over an hour, approximately, and he was certain he would have fallen asleep until he could've made it back.

Also, to say that Sherlock's bed was highly comfortable would have been an understatement. Compared to his own sloppy mattress this bed felt like sleeping on clouds. The thick blanket had kept him cosy and warm and the silk linen was soft on his naked skin. He had fallen asleep within sheer seconds.

Now the covers had slipped down and were pooling in his lap, leaving his torso bare and cold. He was barely wearing anything except for long white knickers and a dark red dressing gown (because Sherlock had allowed him to take one of his). He didn't know what his sleep and wine-drunken mind had been thinking at that point, but now that he was awake again he started to realise how good the fabric felt around his shoulder and backside. There was a very special smell to it that was not unpleasant at all. Rather the opposite. It smelled like fresh rain and smoke, lit fireplaces and sweetened black tea. Intimate like a warm-lain pillow, exciting like the leather of a riding crop, and a bit of citrus.

It smelled as much like the time he and Sherlock had spent in front of the chimney, engrossed in the conversation and the words of each other, as it smelled like the cold air in John's face and their joined hands when they had run through the streets of London. He wondered if that was how Sherlock had smelled like when he had still been human, and the thought alone sent goosebumps to the skin of his arms.

He took a deep breath and found that the whole appealing odour of the garment also mixed with the finest hint of his own sweat. The impact of both their smells combined like that, the fact that he was wearing his gown and lying in his bed all hit him at once and sent shivers down his spine now, made him feel a little lightheaded.

He knew it was more than a bit not good, thinking of another man like that, let alone of a machine. And although he had understood since yesterday that Sherlock was much more than just a machine, he could not accept how his body reacted to this. How his heart beat faster and his mouth went dry, sometimes leaving him to spit out his nervousness in the form of unarticulate words and phrases, but he could not help himself. He had sworn once that something like this would never happen to him again, that it was too foolish and too dangerous, but well. Here he was.

Of course he could not just stay in bed forever now and hide. He was a grown man. (And the bed did not belong to him.) He had a job – two jobs! – and he was on a mission. A mission that was much bigger than him and Sherlock. But he also wanted to help him. Maybe there was still hope. Maybe they could still save him, find his heart and bring him back to life somehow. It sounded like the idea of a naive child, but it didn't have to stay just that and never become reality. There were miracles out there. John knew this, he had encountered one. Around a time where he had needed it the least. That didn't mean it lost its value though. He was still here, still alive. Thanks to a sheer miracle.

Finally, he got up and noticed that there was a door leading from the bedroom into the loo, so he went there first. After he stepped out through the door to the hallway, he could already make out Sherlock's form, bent over a rust-brown microscope. It was the kind of instrument he had otherwise only seen tinkerer's from his former unit use. Once he had stepped into the light Sherlock immediately looked up and turned his head in his direction. He almost jumped up eagerly, making one or two utensils fall off the table from the quick movement, and walked around the table. John blinked away the last bit of sleep in his eyes and shot a slightly confused gaze at him when he came over with long strides and stopped right before he reached the hallway in which John was standing.

Sherlock was black and white, dark trousers, white linen shirt with a wingtip collar. His sleeves were rolled up and unbuttoned, and over the shirt he wore a black waistcoat that clung to his defined chest, his slim waist and the long backside like a second skin, the narrow stripes on it making him appear even leaner. Around his forehead he wore a pair of round goggles and a protruding magnifying glass was attached to it.

For a moment that took John's breath away. Having him standing there in front of him all of a sudden, graceful like a statue and with the light coming in through the large windows behind that made him gleam like a saint, the thick curls arranged with a bit of wax being his helo. It hit John, in this moment, the scent still all around him from the dressing gown around his shoulders and the pillows he had lain on, that this man was beautiful and he did not even want to deny that this huge impact of him and the realisation made his mouth go dry.

He didn't realise, therefore, that Sherlock had also looked him over once or twice, eyes flickering down to John's bare chest with him standing there in nightwear only. John felt his face heat up and quickly wrapped the open red gown around him, closing the belt. Suddenly, he was feeling a lot more exposed than he was. Here he stood, opposite this handsome creature that was fully clothed, dressed in an expensive suit, and he himself had to look like a stray or something, half naked and barefooted.

Sherlock's eyes still lingered on him a little longer when he made a dramatic gesture with his hand and the silver chain of the pocketwatch in his waistcoat swung with the motion. "Finally! I began to wonder if your stomach had started trying to digest itself and killed you in your sleep."

"What?"

"Well, you certainly slept long enough and I could even hear your stomach grumbling from the kitchen. You are hungry. Good. Let us go."

John stepped forward into the kitchen with reluctance and tried to smoothen his short hair by running his hand over it. "Wait," he said when Sherlock was already by the door and took his coat from the hook. "I'm not even dressed!"

Sherlock tapped with his foot on the floor to indicate his impatience. "Have you kept your clothes folded properly like I told you to?"

"...Yes."

"Where is the problem then? I've been waiting for you to get up for _ages._ Ugh, I have been so bored. If this was still possible for me, I would've died of boredom!" He made another series of dramatic hand gestures while he was waiting for him by the chair John had sat in for the remainder of their late night in.

Then he suddenly told him, "Here!" and whipped off his goggles to toss them in his direction. "Put that to the rest of my equipment."

John caught the item before he even knew what was happening, his body working on reflexes, and the goggles were hanging from his hand just in front of his nose. As he looked past them, his eyes met Sherlock's across the room and he thought he had caught him trying to hide a small smile. Something warm started to bloom behind his rib cage, but when he looked down at the kitchen table it died away immediately and got replaced by mild disgust.

"What did you examine?" he asked.

"Maggots."

That was enough of an answer for him. But well, there had been toes in a jar on this table only yesterday, so why was he still surprised?

John hung the goggles over the tube of the microscope and was about to retreat from this scene of a scientific battleground when Sherlock rushed over and started to snap at him. "No, no, careful! Don't touch this, you could falsify the results!"

Sherlock took the goggles from the instrument and placed them onto a pile of notes in a manner that wouldn't exactly be described as careful. John almost chuckled at this, for the man and his contradictions still remained a mystery to him.

"This is the only good microscope I have left, you could have scratched the lenses!"

"Alright, I get it," John said, taking a step back to let Sherlock rearrange his workplace. The lazy git could have walked over here in the first place, he realised, but decided not to mention it. "What happened to the others?"

Sherlock let out a sigh filled with a bit of regret that he clearly didn't want to give voice to, so his body did it for him. "Matters of frustration. Sometimes I feel the strong need to let off some steam."

John thought he could let that pass without comment. For such clever a genius he seemed to have a lot to let out at times, and John could relate to that incredibly well. With the slight difference that when his frustration reached a certain level to cross the line of self-control, he usually ended up punching someone rather than some _thing_. He was just about to go back to the bedroom to finally get dressed when Sherlock grabbed him by the end of his sleeve and drew his body and his attention back to him.

"Just a second, Doctor. I couldn't fail to notice you grimacing at my work. Let me show you something."

He pulled the chair back and motioned for John to sit down in front of the microscope. Sherlock leant down and adjusted the tube for him to be at a comfortable height. John hesitated for only a few seconds and then wrapped his fingers around it and bent forward. He closed one eye for the other one to focus on what was to be observed.

"It's a blood sample," Sherlock murmured and John almost jumped at the sudden closeness of these lips to his neck and the voice in his ear.

The image of it was quite sharp. There was just a drop of purple liquid on white ground. But when he concentrated and looked closely, he could see that there was movement to it. "It's moving?"

"Oh yes, lively, this one."

He was watching the blood for a while longer and Sherlock lingered right behind him. The thick liquid was throbbing lightly, and John almost thought it would adjust to his own pulse. Sherlock bent down even lower and over him, his head now right above his shoulder like a second head, and they waited. John could feel his own heart skip a beat when Sherlock's hand reached out for the one that he had placed around the ocular tube, and as he held it to put it away, he stopped right there. His back was pressed to John's shoulders and he wished the back of the chair would not have to be the wall between them. Then he tried to dismiss every thought he had been thinking over the last couple of minutes. But he had been so distracted there for a moment that his sense of time was utterly useless and non-existent by now.

Actually only a few seconds had passed in which they simply stayed like this, and John wondered if Sherlock had leant in that closely to feel his heartbeat through him, to feel a little more alive again.

"And now," he breathed, directly into his ear, but John didn't feel a tingling of breath.

John put his hand out of the way for him, so that Sherlock could absorb the blood with a pipette. He asked John to open a jar and its content was also very lively. It was filled with dozens of little maggots, stacked and struggling on top of each other. With pursed lips and his face creased in aversion he let a few of them fall into a Petri dish like Sherlock instructed him to. With him still leaning over his shoulder John was a bit more distracted than he would have liked to be, but the deep baritone echoed in his ears as he told him to _Watch closely._

Sherlock let the blood drop into the dish and the maggots were on it within seconds. They crawled, moved and rolled their bodies, fidgeting faster and faster until the last drop of the sample was gone and none of them was moving at all anymore.

"Did they … die from it?" John asked baffled. He knew that maggots appeared as soon as a corpse lay for longer and that it was only a matter of time until the insects ate them and took them apart. That they would die from it defied this logic completely. "What kind of blood did you use?"

"Vampyre blood."

John spun around so suddenly that their heads almost bumped into each other. "How did you get that?"

"I have my sources."

"So that's why it was so dark and purple..."

Sherlock held up another test tube and tilted it back and forth for John to look at it. "The darkness indicates it's venous blood and the thickness of it certainly comes from the high levels of iron. They are bloodsuckers, so it is only logical that those levels would be higher, but their bodies also use it up enormously quick, providing them with energy. When oxygen is transported to the cells, the colour of the blood darkens. Iron explains where the red colour is coming from, but blue would be needed to create purple, and I … I haven't found out yet what that could be. Some animal's blood contains haemocyanin, which means it contains copper, but I just can't think of-"

Sherlock had drifted off with himself there a little and John tried to bring him back by putting a hand to his arm. The detective stopped, blinking down rapidly as if he was only seeing him for the very first time and asked himself what this stranger was doing in his kitchen. John stood up from the chair, but Sherlock's body was so close that there wasn't much space left between him and the table. By getting up he almost knocked over the open jar with the maggots. Fortunately, he did not.

"I'm sure you will figure it out."

Sherlock's eyes locked with John's where they were standing almost pressed against each other and his tone of voice was barely more than a whisper. "You think so?"

"Of course. You can be..." John's eyes dropped to the full pair of lips in front of him and up again to eyes as blue as the sky after a storm. "...quite clever."

Only seconds later he wanted to punch himself for this. After he had swallowed down this urge John retreated from this scene as fast as he could manage. He went into the bathroom, splashed some cold water on his face and then closed the door to the bedroom to get dressed. He dismissed the thought of people wondering why he would be wearing the same clothes today, since he was also seeing the same people. Not that he could do anything about it now.

Walking through the hallway again he saw how Sherlock flung his coat above his head and around his shoulders like he had just set his wings back to his body. He glanced over at John and furrowed his brows for a moment. "Hum. A bit crinkly, but roughly acceptable, I guess."

He was already halfway out of the door and rushed down the stairs when he called out, "Come along, Doctor!"

John let out an affectionate huff and set foot to follow. For a moment he was wondering if Sherlock had simply forgotten that John had offered for him to use his name or if he actually liked calling him _Doctor_ all the time. He assumed it was the latter and that brought a smile to his face.

"What about Mrs Hudson?" he asked as soon as he was directly behind him on the stairs.

"Meets with our neighbour Mrs Turner every morning to have breakfast and … _chitchat_." Out of his mouth it sounded like the word had personally offended him. "She's not home therefore."

They reached the end of the stairs and walked past Mrs Hudson's flat and out of the front door. Speedwells was literally no more than one stone's throw away and one minute later they were sitting inside the coffee shop and by the window, opposite each other. John ordered breakfast and a cup of coffee (black, no sugar). They brought the coffee in next to no time, and he almost burned his tongue on the steaming hot first sip of liquidised beans that would hopefully bring him through the day. He closed his eyes at the taste of bitterness and warmth on his lips and endured the pain the burn caused him. All this time he had not noticed that Sherlock didn't take his eyes off him. Was he trying to picture how his coffee tasted? Would he ask him again to let him drink a sip, like he had done with the wine? But the look on his face did not speak of wonder or longing as much as of … observation? Was he studying him? Or just making use of his _Science of Deduction_?

The waitress brought the breakfast to their table that John had ordered. An omelette and boiled eggs – something simple and not too expensive, but right now it still made his mouth water. The lady had also put a small basket full of sliced bread down on the table, perhaps expecting Sherlock to eat something as well. He was not having any of it, though, of course he wasn't. As soon as John took fork and knife in hand and was about to take a bite, Sherlock released the hard stare on him and started talking.

"Will they keep you until the end of the show today?"

"No idea," John said, mouth full of omelette and not caring in the slightest because he was too bloody hungry. He had at least the decency to swallow down before speaking again. "As far as I understood it, it depends on how pressing a matter there is. I cannot imagine Moriarty would pay me more by choice if he didn't need me that night." Evil mastermind or not, even he had to be stingy when it came to money, just like proper businessmen ought to.

"Let's hope that he doesn't tonight then. I need you to do something for me."

Having stuffed more food into his mouth already, John tilted his head in question. Of course he had expected Sherlock to tell him of his plans today, but he had rather thought (or hoped) that they would involve the both of them. Not only him alone, to function as his footboy.

"Am I right to assume that you know where Scotland Yard is located?"

John could hardly swallow fast enough before he said, "Yes, of course!"

"Good. I want you to go there after work. Just ask for an Inspector Graham Lestrade at the reception. He will see to you if he is not too busy." Sherlock frowned at the wall behind him and seemed to think something over for a second, and when his gaze shifted to him again there was the tiniest of smiles playing around his lips as he confirmed, "He will see to you."

"Alright," he said, taking one slice of bread from the basket. He could not remember the last time he had eaten that much food – or even the last time he had eaten anything at all! But the next time he spoke he tried to do so before taking the next bite, not wanting Sherlock to mock him for his manners. On the other hand, Sherlock and manners...

"And what do I say to him?"

Sherlock's hands were palm to palm in front of his mouth again and once more he reminded John of a saint, but this time because he looked like he was praying rather than like someone who was cast in a godlike light. "Pray, tell the man that Sherlock Holmes has sent you, and that it is of highest importance that he provide you with as much information as there is about all the crimes committed in London within the last four weeks."

"But – and let me remember this correctly – doesn't he think you're missing?"

"Yes. Maybe dead even, by now. As does everyone else who sees but does not observe. Why?"

"And isn't that going to be … you know? A problem? With him believing me when he thinks you got abducted?"

"Well, he wouldn't if he could pay a tiny bit of attention for once. I am quite obviously neither gone nor am I dead!“ Sherlock pulled on his hair, apparently as an act of frustration. Either due to the stupidity of those who failed to think like him, or at himself for indeed having been abducted in the first place. For indeed being dead and for feeling more and more hollow, the more the truth of it would sink in.

"But it is still a secret?"

"Yes, it's still a secret!"

He raised his voice so loudly and so suddenly that John flinched at the impact that the vibration in those tones caused and how they echoed behind his own chest and lungs. _Yes, he was certainly frustrated._ John took a look around and noticed only two other people who were sitting a few tables away and looked over to them, but they turned their heads in another direction as soon as they felt like they were being watched by someone else.

He cleared his throat and tried to bring Sherlock back to him and their plotting and away from his dark thoughts. "So, just to have this clear: you want me to go find that Lestrade inspector and demand he let me sniff around his case files, and you think he will simply agree to this because I am an acquaintance of you?"

"Yes."

"Have you even worked with the police before? I thought you were a private detective."

" _Consulting_ detective. I have worked particularly with him multiple times over the years, and I have solved their cases when the police had repeatedly failed to do so. He owes me a lot of favours, my Doctor."

 _Ah. Of course._ John had read about him in the papers. That was why the name of the inspector had struck him as familiar. He just hadn't been sure about the pronounciation. _Of course_ Sherlock Holmes had worked with the police. It could only be the big cases, the most brutal and bizarre cases, that had made him so famous a detective for being the only one who could solve them.

"What if it won't work?" he asked because even though the man was a genius this plan involved more than only one obstacle, and if Sherlock had not somehow taken lessons from Irene to learn the one or other magic trick he had no idea how he thought John should convince a police officer.

"I will know if it doesn't."

"How? How would you know?"

Suddenly, Sherlock brought his hand to his left ear, wrapped his fingers around it and _twisted_. John's jaw dropped in shock as he stared at the detatched ear in his palm. Then he closed his eyes and let out a more or less relieved sigh as he remembered that Sherlock had a tendency for removing his body parts at a whim.

"Jesus. _Sherlock_ , I am eating! At least give me something of a warning."

He held the ear out for John to take it like he had done with the eyeball and waited – for once patiently – until he opened his eyes again and looked at him. His gaze was open and maybe even a bit apologetic, all for him to see, and it hit him all of a sudden that there was so much trust and so much confidence that Sherlock placed in him. That John was the best he had at the moment. That he was everything he had left. He could have turned away, could have killed him even for knowing his secret, but he had decided to confide only more secrets to him, allowing himself to trust John more than John had ever felt he could.

John took the ear, and his fingers brushed his (oddly enough still soft and warm) palm before he tucked it away into the pocket of his waistcoat. "Alright, alright, van Gogh."

This seemed to become something of a habit of theirs – Sherlock amputating his own organs on the spot and John keeping them safe and close to his chest.

"Who?"

He should have known the genius knew nothing about modern art. "Ah, not important."

He looked down at his nearly empty plate and decided he was not hungry anymore. But the coffee should have reached a tolerable level of heat by now, so his tongue would not actually feel like that of a cat after drinking from it. _Speaking of tongues_ , he thought, taking a long sip of bitter temptation, _is there not still a problem to this plan?_ John placed the cup back on the table and thought for a minute.

"Oh, spill, Doctor. I can hear you thinking from where I'm sitting. Out with it."

"What about communication?"

Sherlock furrowed his brows. "What about it?"

"How do we communicate?"

John thought (for only a second) of making a joke about how Sherlock could give him his mouth as well, and that he would probably go mad without it, but then he thought of his own fingers touching those soft, pink lips and opening them, letting just the tip of his finger slip in between, and suddenly the joke wasn't funny anymore.

"Well, although I'd say they would be obliged to teach you this in medical school, but an ear is the body's tool used for audible purposes. It is a receiver, not a transmitter. Thus, we cannot communicate through it."

"But-"

"It won't be necessary, believe me. Just do me a favour, would you?"

 _Anything._ John nodded.

"Would you keep it in your coat pocket for the rest of the day until you need it? I have little desire to be a witness to all the tedious conversations with all these _women_ all day long!"

John did as he asked and grinned to himself, remembering how they quoted him in the news article. Sherlock could be quite prone to emphasise the dramatic parts of his personality. Had Mrs Hudson mentioned that?

"Oh and also, Doctor,“ Sherlock said a few minutes later when they made their way out of Speedwells to fall back into the tight grip that reality had on them. A reality where the evil and the dark was always right at the back of their necks, lingering over their shoulders, but never for them to see, never to catch.

"Hmh?" he hummed, not recalling what he was referring to.

"The ever pounding, loud beating of your heart would distract me all day."

Sherlock Holmes left him with this, a one sided smirk on his face and a wink.

John Watson, doctor and former knight captain in a war hidden from the ones he had been fighting for, killing off blood sucking, vicious monsters, painting whole walls with their brain matter, was blushing. Actually blushing from the words of a robot wrapped up in warm, skin-like texture, talking about the beat of his heart when he was himself heartless.

 


	8. The Underground of Scotland Yard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After being chased around London by the responsibilities he has imposed on himself, John goes to face the most challenging task of today: Meeting Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard and, to everyone's great surprise, a few more new and old faces than expected.

John felt like a coward. He knew that, perhaps, he didn't have to feel this way. Was it considered cowardly to not tell your receptionist that you wanted to quit your job, and also avoiding to talk to Stamford, the guy who got you said job barely four weeks ago? Or would it be worse to simply go for it, simply do it, leave everything behind and run away?

He had not decided yet. All he knew was that, after this first morning shift at the clinic, he was already exhausted and irritable. The thought of taking a cab to go to The Prof now, repeating basically the same procedure of checking, sterilizing, patching up, but with more of the running up and down the halls, listening to girls snapping at each other and possibly seeing Irene Adler again, already had him on edge. But needs must when the devil drives – and in this case, the devil seemed to be John's new employer. Which brought him to his third job for today: finding out about the murders around the City of London.

He was on his own again. Doing at least part of what he was really good at and made for. He should feel better about it. About having not only one but two jobs. About being needed, wanted. About not simply being put in a stuffed corner, unable to blink away the thickening layer of dust that would eventually coat his whole frame, the last clue of his existence and importance being nothing more than particles of dirt.

So John was not complaining. Not at all. Stress did not bother him, he worked best in situations where time and matters were pressing, when a problem tightened the grip around his throat. He worked best when he had to choke for air, when the cold huff of death was breathing down the back of his neck, making him shake with fury and adrenaline. No, he was not complaining. It was only the sudden loneliness that got to him now. But loneliness brought with it the confusing realisation that he had not felt this feeling, whatever it was, more than twenty four hours ago. That he actually hadn't felt a lot of things a day ago, and that he had not laughed so much, lit up so bright, felt his heart swell so often, not in months. And somehow that made it all fine for now.

By the time he was leaving The Prof, the sun was already preparing to set on the far horizon, bathing the London skyline in a soft orange. Sunrays were breaking through the rosy tinted blanket of clouds that looked like sheepskin, and they were falling through them in straight lines like they were aching to touch the ground. The sight of it improved John's mood a little, and he even managed to hail a cab within bare minutes.

In the cab, he took the ear out of his coat pocket and looked at it with slight suspicion from where it was placed in both his palms. He knew Sherlock had a pretty sharp sense of hearing. Could he hear the wheels of the hansom turning? The hooves clattering, the horses snorting? Could he hear John's steady breath or the rustling of his clothes? The _thump, thump, thump_ beating of his heart?

He held the ear up now, close to his mouth. "Going to Scotland Yard now."

Feeling already ridiculous enough, he almost bit his tongue to cut off the _wish me luck_ he had wanted to add. _No communication tool_. And talking to an ear in the backseat of a cab all by himself? A bit not good. He carefully stored it away in his breast pocket.

 

Once entered, John had to admit that Scotland Yard did not look all that special on the inside. Floor, ceiling, door frames and most of the furniture was wooden, the walls were painted in a dirty yellow, which appeared even dirtier in the shallow light the louvred blinds let through. There was a potted palm tree in the corner, and the walls that were not covered in wanted posters and pictures of missing people were decorated by framed portraits of Queen Victoria and other renowned personalities. For a moment, he thought about looking through the posters and see if Sherlock's face would appear somewhere in between them, but he felt like there was not enough time for this. (He would see Sherlock again soon enough.) He stepped forward to the reception where a young man in uniform gave him a polite smile and asked, "How can I help you, sir?"

"Eh, hello. My name is John Watson. I have a matter that cannot wait to be approached, and I'd very much like to talk to Inspector, er, Lestrade." He kept his chin up to underline the importance of his concern, but after he had nearly gotten the inspector's name wrong, he felt the need to add a quiet, "If possible."

The man nodded, and asked him to wait for only a moment as he disappeared behind a corner. _That should not have been so easy now, should it?_ When he reappeared, he wore a smile below his waxed moustache that was somehow tighter and less patient than the one from before. "Only a moment, sir."

John had barely been able to take a seat when a grey haired man, dressed in dark brown tweed, walked into the main hall with heavy but quick steps and an already exasperated look on his face. He skimmed the room until his dark and worried pair of eyes settled on his frame and watched him, apparently in anticipation.

"Are you a friend of his?" was the way he greeted him. He was a bit taller than John himself, and maybe a bit older, too.

He stood up and they shook hands before he could think of a good way to reply to this. Had he expected someone like him to come? Did this happen a lot around here? People spying for Sherlock Holmes? Maybe John was not that unique and essential to the detective than he had thought … But no, he shook his head only a fraction, this was not about him.

"I'm a … _colleague_ , so to say. John Watson. And are you … Inspector Graham Lestrade?"

"Pardon me?" The policeman knitted his brows and looked at him in utter confusion for a moment as then, all of a sudden, the dark clouds around his face seemed to fade, and his mouth opened to form an expression of comprehension for the first time.

John, on the other hand, was still highly confused. "No?"

"Alright, alright," Lestrade said then, "I believe you when you say that Sherlock Holmes has sent you. So would you be so kind as to follow me to my office, Mr Watson, and I am sure we can clear up this little misunderstanding, hmh?"

_Misunderstanding?_

Lestrade led them through a hallway and they passed by other police officers who were standing guard. When they came into a small room, he closed the door behind them. He took off his brown suit jacket, and underneath he was wearing a light blue shirt with narrow, vertical stripes and a brown waistcoat fitting his jacket and trousers.

"First of all," he walked around his desk, on which notes and letters were already piling up, and poured himself a cup of coffee, "My name is not Graham. It's _Greg_."

Ah. That explained his reaction. Still, this could not be what he had been referring to when he had said _misunderstanding_ , could it?

"Secondly," he continued, offering John to take a seat with a swift motion of his hand. "You can tell your little _crew_ that I am not doing this anymore. If you know anything about where he is or what he is doing, pray, tell me, and please tell me if he is still in one bit."

_Well_ , thought John, glancing down at his chest. Slowly but surely he began to wonder if no one noticed the indicated outline in the form of an ear in his pocket. Apparently they didn't, or decided not to question it. Nevertheless, he thought with a single ear missing from his mechanic body he would still count as _in one bit_ , wouldn't he? It was not as if John had ripped off the thing himself.

But Sherlock being alive was still a secret. Which brought him into a situation where the only option available would be to lie. "He's, er, I fear that he's not. He's dead." _Technically not a lie_.

Lestrade's body went still just as he was about to take a sip from his mug. "Oh."

He took a really big gulp that made John wonder how he didn't burn his tongue.

"I mean, can't say I didn't expect that, but…"

"You were close then?"

That provoked a laugh from the inspector. "Well, not exactly how I'd put it. Certainly not how he would've put it, either. But, uhm, in a way he trusted me. More than any other Scotland Yarder at any rate. Shouldn't you have figured that since he's apparently sent you to me?"

Yes. Yes, he supposed he should have. Had been more of a rhetorical question anyway.

"You're a new one then?" Lestrade asked, then gestured to the cup in his hands, "Want one, too? Looking a bit tired there."

"Ehm, no thanks."

"Must be hard living on the streets. London's a dirty place in so many ways."

"Excuse me?" Now John was just plainly thrown off track. He had no idea where this conversation was going anymore, but at the same time all of Lestrade's other remarks slowly started to make more and more sense. "I'm-" he cleared his throat, "I'm not living on the street. I'm not-" and laughed at the absurdity of this, "I'm not _homeless_!"

"Hmmh!" The inspector had probably tried to give him a revealing expression of _Ahhh, begging your pardon!_ but that wasn't so easy when there was coffee in one's mouth. He put the mug down on his desk, which was completely overflooded with what appeared to be the papers and case files. "Oh, so you really are a colleague then? And I even thought you are far too well dressed and clean-shaven for a rough sleeper! Smelling better, too."

John wasn't sure in how far that was actually flattering. "Thank you? Yes, I suppose I am."

"So you're not one of his homeless irregulars or other?"

"Eh, no. I'm- I'm a doctor. A trained doctor. I live here. With a roof over my head and everything." _A roof over a depressing grey hole with a bed in it, he added in his head. But this was not the time for self-pity._

"Oh, a doctor? How has he gotten himself a doctor?" He seemed to ponder a little, not really here with him, before he grabbed for the cigar next to the ashtray on the desk. He let out a deep sigh of presumed defeat as he started to search for a box of matches.

John coughed, trying to lead the conversation in the right direction again. No matter how much he had always hated bringing word of the deceased, there was a mission to be accomplished. "So the last thing he said to me. It was about his last case." God, why was this so difficult? "A big one, a big... case. He needed case files."

"Case files?" Lestrade asked, still distracted in his search and with an unlit cigar between his lips.

"Yes. All files. Of all the crimes committed within the last four weeks."

Now Lestrade was listening. "Wait, what? Are you asking me to just give them to you now?"

"I need them." John drew himself up to his full height to make his position clear. No more playing around now. He knew how it had been in the knighthood. Not everyone had liked the actions he had taken when faced with a difficult decision. In fact, most of them never had. But they still obeyed, and they still had to trust him to be right in the end. It hadn't been his ideas in itself that would always convince them. It had been the sheer confidence with which he commanded, the dominance of his walk and the hard expression on his face that would remind everyone of his superiority in rank, and, last but not least, body language was the most important factor to make people jump.

"Begging your pardon, Doctor...?"

"John Watson."

"Dr Watson, but I can't help you. My hands are tied."

"It was his dying wish," he took a major step forward and made sure to bury the tiniest sting of guilt he felt as he saw Lestrade swallowing at the reminder.

"I … know," the inspector sighed. "Always about the cases, that madman. Even beyond the grave, it seems. I knew it would get him killed one day. I am very sorry, but there's really no way I can give any police document to you. And now, with Holmes dead..."

He had found the match box now and took out one match to scrape it against the box in a quick hand movement. Sparks sprayed and a flame illuminated Lestrade's face. All of his wrinkles and grey hairs turned golden and flickered as he held the cigar between fingers and lips and tried to light it.

"Those things will kill you, Geoff."

The cigar fell to the ground unlit, and Lestrade shook his hand as if he had burned himself. The whiff of air blew out the match, and the dark office was cast in even more shadows, the biggest light source now being the suddenly open door. There was a silhouette standing against the light, his hair wild, his collar turned up.

Sherlock Holmes and his dramatic entrances.

"Oh, bloody hell!"

"Geoff?" John asked, more annoyed than anything else.

"It's Greg!" Lestrade started to complain.

"Is it?" Sherlock stepped into the room as if he had all the time in the world. (Well, as a presumed dead man he might have.)

"He told me your name was Graham."

"Yes, he does that. But damn it! Bloody hell, Holmes!"

A curly haired police officer came rushing through the door past Sherlock, ignoring everyone in the room but Greg (apparently) Lestrade. "Sir, some of our officers claim to have seen-"

But Lestrade interrupted, "Donovan, please remove Sherlock Holmes from the list of missing persons."

Now Donovan had finally taken notice of who else was in the room with them. "Oh, bloody hell!"

"Sally?" John asked, shocked to see her here. Shocked, in fact, to see her again at all.

"John?!" She seemed to feel the same.

"No," Sherlock had the audacity to toss in sorely. "I am still missing!"

"No, you're not," Lestrade replied soberly.

"Lestrade!" Sherlock's complaints began to sound like those of a child.

"Wait." Suddenly Lestrade started looking back and forth between John and Sally. "You two know each other?"

And that also drew Sherlock Holmes' attention. "Yes, how do you know each other?"

"Shut up," John told him. He probably had, of all of them, the least rational reason to be mad at him now. Irrationally enough, he still was. "You thought I couldn't manage this on my own, didn't you?"

"No, I figured _he_ wouldn't be able to recognise the importance of matter at hand, and I should be proven right."

"Of course!“ Lestrade's rising temper turned up the volume and the strength of his voice. "Of course I'd be expected to do bad police work, give out case files to complete strangers, because it was so bloody likely that The Great Sherlock Holmes had it all worked out, sending out men who he apparently trusts more than his closest friends! Of course I should've known you would just take some time off, return from the depths of God knows wherever you've been-"

Sherlock shushed him in the midst of his rant, a worried look on his face at the thought of who might be listening, not of who was speaking to him.

"Oh, so it's still a secret?" The inspector asked with a snort.

"Yes, it's still a secret!" Sherlock looked around the room without actually searching for something to look at, and John felt caught in the single second of a deja vu. (Maybe Sherlock should be more careful before just walking into other people's offices if it was still so very secret.) For a moment, the detective appeared to be at a loss – not necessarily for words, but for the right way to deal with Lestrade's unexpectedly strong and emotional reaction. He tried to calm them both down by speaking in a lower voice, laying a hand down in the air between them to make his point clear. "Lestrade. You know this is bigger than your pride."

This might go without saying, but … it didn't exactly work.

"My _pride_?! I thought you were dead! For weeks, Sherlock! My God, you could have said something, let one of your homeless lot leave a hint somewhere, anything!"

John was watching the whole scene, reduced to silence. He felt a little ridiculous now, about his half-hearted huffiness from before. People like Lestrade deserved to be hurt much more than he did. Hurt by Sherlock Holmes. It made him feel empathetic and maybe a bit naive for thinking Sherlock wouldn't do this to anyone. But at the same time he had to admit that he wasn't surprised at all. He could imagine him doing all of this very well. Going undercover, pretending to be dead. Or even actually _dying_ , actually _being in danger_ without having told a word to anyone. He wouldn't have expected him to have many friends, and he didn't have to wonder why.

"I thought we were a team here! But no, instead you keep on running off on your own, keeping us in the dark-"

"Sir." Sally Donovan, who, too, had watched this scene play out long enough now, raised her voice.

"Are they in?" Sherlock asked, hiding his guilty conscience beneath keen interest.

"Don't change topics now!"

" _Lestrade_." - " _Sir_." Sally and Sherlock spoke almost at the exact same time, and finally Lestrade acknowledged that there were others in the room as well. He turned his head in Sally's direction.

"I think he's right. Whatever he has to say might be bigger than us right now."

Lestrade gave an unhappy but defeated sigh, probably realising that with this admirably selfless sounding statement he had to swallow his own pride, along with his own emotional priorities, unanswered questions and the strange bitterness of it all, and soon they all found themselves walking down an empty hallway, he and Donovan taking the lead, Sherlock and John following a few steps behind.

John had not said another word to him after the heated conversation (and he didn't even want to call it that) in Lestrade's office had ended so abruptly. Confusion had taken over in his head, and he wasn't sure how to feel about this whole business anymore. To be fair, it had been quite the ride for him so far, rushing into what turned out to be this huge thing that cast a dangerous shadow over the capital of England. There was this renewed pressure of the responsibility for so many lives in his hands, and this, mixed with his low self-esteem and general faith in himself, created a potion that was hard to swallow. If he wanted to be useful in this plot, sticky with madness and the unknown, he needed someone to rely on. He already knew that Sherlock tended to just leave people behind. He didn't think this was something he could take. Yes, he decided, if they were going to be partners, they had to be able to trust each other.

He fished the ear out of his pocket and held it out wordlessly for Sherlock to take back, which he immediately did, and soon he had as many ears as he had eyes and hands again.

"You have questions," Sherlock stated, loud enough to make himself sound the most monotonous, quiet enough to not let Lestrade hear. Because he knew Lestrade would have questions indeed.

"Where are we going?" John asked.

"Meeting with the team."

"The team? Since when is there a team?"

"Since Moriarty poses a serious threat that the police fails to do anything about. Obviously."

"Ah. So you've built a team with real people? Who you share real information with? Are perfectly open and honest with at all times?"

John stopped in his tracks to look at him and Sherlock stopped too, only to have a look of perplexity on his porcelain face when he looked back at him, and for a moment John felt glorious. He had made the detective have to search for clues instead of just observing and taking everything. He had made him think about what to say. But Sherlock had to know what he was talking about, hadn't he? There was this desperate need to have this confirmed. The confirmation of guilt, an insurance that he would be honest with him in the future. At all times. As much as he liked him, trust was essential in this.

"Are you two coming?"

John wanted to punch the inspector in the face. He interrupted the moment of eyes locking and breath hitching and just the two of them in this world by closing his eyes in irritation, then walked to step into the room in which Lestrade and Donovan were waiting for them. But Sherlock grabbed him by his sleeve and made him turn around again to watch his pink pair of lips mouth the word, "Later."

He felt a bit better after this.

The room into which they walked would have been a surprise, almost. They all kept calm and quiet, as if waiting for something undefined. Sherlock stood next to him, and with a bit of a gap next to Lestrade, who stood next to Sally. The closing grid locked them up in the room, and what appeared to be rust on it didn't exactly look trustworthy to John. But maybe it was just brown paint. The room itself shone in a yellow light that was coming from the lamps mounted on the flower patterned wallpaper. John felt the slightest hints of claustrophobia arising in him. Having everyone else - no, having _Sherlock_ being so calm and natural next to him helped a bit. Then the whole room began to move.

It was a lift! He should've noticed that sooner. Now his initial paranoia seemed a little silly. Still, the feeling of losing control came right with the feeling of his feet losing the ground below, and the more his legs weakened, the more he was shaken by an uneasiness that grew within him. A hand brushed his own, and as he looked down he was surprised to find Sherlock's hand next to it. It grounded him, set him back into the present and out of his head. His stomach felt funny. He knew the man liked to pretend he lacked a certain kind of empathy, but he could undeniably feel John enough to know when to bring him back to earth.

The lift gave a slight jolt before it came to a halt, and the grid was shoved to the side. Lestrade was the first to walk out and into the darkness, which showed no mercy and immediately swallowed him. Sally Donovan followed. There wasn't much to see except for the first metres of stone-flagged walls and blackness. Sherlock took his first steps and turned his head to look over his shoulder. He gave John a look he would in fact have described as cocky, all half-smile and one brow pulled up. It was a look that carried an unspoken challenge with it.

"Coming?"

John needed a second to take a breath. Sure, he was used to the challenge that some called darkness, some mystery, others hell. _Way too used_. He couldn't be sure where he would get himself into, mentally, and where he would land when exposed to it for too long. The enemy always lingered behind the veil of the gloom, and it was known to be relentless.

Suddenly, Sherlock leant in so that his hand touched John's forearm and his lips touched his ear. "Could be dangerous," he whispered with that wicked tongue of his, no hot breath felt but just a general heat coming off him instead.

John found himself out of the lift in about two seconds. Sherlock must have very proud of himself now. He caught up with him quickly and it didn't take long for them to be surrounded by pure blackness. Having his soldier reflexes (and complexes) activated without even asking for it, John strained his ears and was suspicious of every sound he heard, which was mostly that of shoes walking on stone, inhales and exhales. He almost walked into Lestrade, who seemed to be in front of him just out of the blue (or the black).

"I'm going to knock now," the inspector warned them, and John could practically feel how Sherlock rolled his eyes as he let out an exasperated sigh.

"Pray, do," he said impatiently.

What followed was probably a secret knocking code (not morse, he noted) and then the door opened.

The light coming from the other side was almost painful to the eyes. The brightest source of light would be a chandelier in the middle of the room, but there were more lamps on the walls. John had to admit the large size of the room was unexpected, yet probably appropriate for how much fuss they had gone to to come down here. The walls were barely visible behind the huge bookshelves that almost touched the ceiling. In the middle of it all there was a big table that had some sort of map engraved and painted onto it, and a bunch of people were standing around it, now staring at them.

One woman in particular was gaping and seemed to be in some sort of shock once she had lain eyes on who had entered. She was wearing a tight waistcoat with big buttons and light and dark brown stripes over a white shirt. John also didn't miss the holster on her belt and the little revolver it carried. Her gingerbread hair was braided and curled to make two buns on each side of her head, which drew attention to the slightly pink cheeks in contrast to her pale skin at first glance.

In the short amount of time that it took John to blink the lady had sprinted towards them, and was now wrapping her arms around Sherlock's neck with such force that they almost fell over.

"You're alive!"

John couldn't deny the tiny twinge of jealousy he felt at the sight of that. Was that his wife? He had never spoken a word of her before. But one look at Sherlock's pained expression, a clear sign of discomfort, told him that no, this didn't look like a man reunited with his significant other. Although he couldn't tell if the face he was making wasn't also due to her calling him alive when he himself knew that this wasn't quite true.

When John glanced over to the other faces in the room, that of a young man caught his eye, who was awkwardly trying to look away from the scene. Ah. Was she his wife? He found he even shared a few similarities with Sherlock. Looking behind him he saw that even Lestrade looked uncomfortable. _Very interesting_. And still not at all why there had come here. But another voice filled the room to interrupt their moment of … well, whatever one might call it.

"Oho, alive at last! Why am I almost not surprised? Holmes and his need for dramatic entrances."

"Sorry," the lady added quickly and then retreated from the detective.

The dark haired, bearded man looked at Lestrade and a sudden and much more primal annoyance (and maybe even vulnerability) changed his tone of voice. "Did you know?"

Anderson knew that Lestrade would defend Sherlock Holmes if he thought it appropriate. Which, as he saw it, was most of the time. In other words, since they had started working together, Sherlock still so much more broken and juvenile back then, Lestrade unconsciously found himself in a position of responsibility for that whirlwind of a man. To everyone's general irritation.

John had eyed this Anderson person with a certain suspicion and spleen the entire time he spoke. There was something about his tone, about the way in which he moved his hands and guided his facial expressions. But Sherlock ignored all of this most passionately. It showed again that he didn't do nonsense. John could admire that.

"No, Anderson, I didn't know." Even Lestrade sounded exhausted.

"We could have known."

Another woman had raised her voice and reduced the group to renewed silence. By looking more and more closely through the bunch of people, they slowly dissolved into various personalities, all very different from each other and far less threatening than they had appeared to be at first. The next face at which John stopped and stared was telling him a lot more about its owner.

She was definitely the one that had made Anderson keep his mouth shut. She walked towards him, distancing herself from the group but, unlike the other woman, she created an aura of respect and grace around her, much like a dancer, and very much like-

"Jane Hawkins!"

John couldn't believe this. What was Jane, the pretty dancer from Moriarty's club, doing down here, somewhere in the basement of Scotland Yard? She also looked rather dressed for a fight than for a show today.

"Someone like Sherlock Holmes," she continued as she came closer, "doesn't just disappear and get himself killed. We could've known better than that."

Sherlock neither took his eyes off her (oh, the twinge returned), nor did he move at all as her hand brushed his face and her lips pressed a peck to his cheek. "Glad to have you back in the game, Sherl," she whispered, and her voice had never sounded so lovely. John found himself liking her less than ever before.

"Ah, you must know her already, I presume?" Sherlock asked in an unimpressed manner and turned towards John.

He, not having expected to find that pair of eyes on him so suddenly and with such precision, couldn't think quickly enough to give an answer, and instead just started with, "I-"

The dancer thought she could help him out a bit. "Well, yes and no, Sherl. His knowledge of me lacks much more than his pronunciation of my name lacks syllables." (Had she always been so irritatingly dramatic?) She gave him a smile that was sweet as sugar and said, "My real name is Janine, not Jane."

Well, that still didn't explain the dancer career now, did it? Unless...

"You're a spy. Is that what you do? You, spying on Moriarty?"

She just smiled at him, then turned her back like this conversation wasn't one worth having with him. John knew he had liked Jane a lot in the beginning, but he began to think this wouldn't be the case with Janine now. Not that the way she acted around Sherlock had anything to do with that (is what he told himself).

"Alright, enough of this now," Sherlock announced while everyone was still more or less staring. "There are more serious matters at hand, we mustn't dwell on such trivia now."

"Trivia?!" Anderson couldn't decide if he was asking or exclaiming the word. Everyone silently agreed to ignore him.

"Yes, I think there are indeed, young man."

A few people stepped aside like this was some kind of rehearsed act in a play and this was their great night. The metaphor didn't even lack the most fitting use of spotlight, as one only needed to take one look at the ceiling - oh, the dramatic chandelier. Sherlock picked up on that, too. Not on the impressive, odd effect of it all but on the impression itself. And from in between the little group emerged … Mrs Hudson!

John's face decided to join in to Sherlock's surprised widening of eyes by letting his jaw drop. (They made quite the pair now, looking like that.) First Jane, eh, Janine, and now Mrs Hudson! Who else was in on this conspiracy? And, more importantly, did John want to be a part of that? That had to be almost out of question. If sweet, innocent Mrs Hudson was here, the brave knight in rusty armor could stay, too.

She looked hurt. John wished he could have told her, but then again, this wouldn't have been fair. Speaking of fair, he then found himself wishing Mrs Hudson would refuse to utter another word until Sherlock Holmes felt guilty enough to apologise to her. He watched his mouth open and close again as he began to form what look like it could have the potential to be an apology, eventually.

"I knew it!" Mrs Hudson exclaimed, spread out her arms and took Sherlock into the caring embrace of a mother. At the sight of it John almost didn't feel disappointed that he would now never know the sound of a Holmes saying his sorry.

At least she gave him a deserved, if half-hearted, slap to the chest. "Running off on your own without telling your friends … If I didn't have so much faith in you, I would be very mad at you, just know as much. And you too, Dr Watson!“

John held his hands up in defence. Up to now no one else had seemed to have noticed much of his presence. Not that he wouldn't have been used to that.

"And I even thought it was strange, such a skilled doctor coming to us so soon after Sherlock was gone."

"Oh no, I didn't- I've only met him," John started explaining and reflecting for himself as he thought about how long he knew the madman, "...yesterday." He felt like it could have been months already.

"Told ya they were gonna be bit pissed, boss."

Everyone looked around to see a young man, with a face that suggested at least one week without any sleep (or full of unpleasant habits), speaking in some kind of London accent that was in any case associated with _street_.

"Oh, what's this stray boy doing here again?" Lestrade asked, clearly very done for by now.

"'Ey, I've as much a right to be 'ere as you do, sir!" The man with the uncombed hair replied sorely.

Sherlock pinched his nose and had his eyes closed in pain at this whole situation. "Shut up, Wiggins."

"Alright, everyone!" Sally Donovan stepped forward, leaving the side of the inspector with whom she had stood by the door for the entire length of this chaotic reunion. "Jesus has risen from the grave, we are all very happy, can we move on now, and put our minds back to the major problems?"

No one knew how she did it, but everyone complied this time around.

Sherlock clapped his hands to finish off this scene and begin a new one in which he was in control of the room and everybody listened to him. "Well then. Now that that's settled, shall we begin?"

"So very far from 'settled'," John heard Lestrade mumble next to him, but Sherlock either didn't hear or ignored it as he took out what appeared to be a huge, rolled up map, all yellowed and dusty. He spread it out on the big table in the middle of the room, and everyone, curious as such groups were, gathered around it and watched as he blew off the dust – Lestrade coughed a little, which seemed ironic, considering he apparently smoked cigars – and ordered two people (Wiggins and that awkward looking fellow) to hold down the ends for it to not roll up again. It turned out to be a map of the City of London.

"James Moriarty," he started, as if he did not already have everyone's full attention. "During the last several months it has become more and more apparent to each of us that he is more than meets the eye. But now most recent investigations have revealed..."

"What investigations?" Anderson hissed, but someone elbowed him in the side and he shut up.

"...that his intentions turn out to be worse than any of us had feared."

"Could you be any more vague?" asked Sally.

Sherlock obviously had to bite his tongue at her comment, but kept going somewhat sulkily. "As I was trying to say, it might be very hard to believe just how evil a mind he possesses. What he is planning to do goes against every good thought that can be born, every good will of nature, why, against the very concept of God herself. Every evidence suggests that James Moriarty wants to control his very own army of cyborgs."

There was the sound of one mutual gasp in the room, followed by a general lack of knowing what to say to this. Anderson (and who would've thought?) was the first to find his voice again and huff out a laugh. "Oh, but this is absurd!"

"Don't be like that, Philip," said the woman with the gingerbread hair. Then, turning to Sherlock, "Can you tell us how you know all this, Sherlock?"

"Yeah, I'd like to know that, too," Sally Donovan added, and suddenly an overall noise of messy mumbling filled the room, everyone talking to each other or no one at all, and along with the volume grew the suspicion in the room.

"Yes, Holmes. Where were you that you can know all this?"

"Does this doctor fellow have anything to do with this? Does he know more?" Lestrade asked, and everyone started to hop on to this trend of asking wild questions about John while talking directly over his head.

"Where does he even come from?" - "I first met him in the pub. Is he a spy, too?" - "Just recently he started doctoring some of us in The Prof. I have never seen him before." - "He said he was a knight." - "Is he even a real doctor?"

John heard all those questions and every new one stung like the tip of a blade in his flesh, aiming for the same spot every time and slowly digging deeper. It was as though he was not even in the room, and it was up to those strangers to judge his good name all by themselves, his life in their hands. He needed to get himself – his voice! – out there before he would start to only hear their voices and not even see them anymore.

"Hey! I've already said I have only just met him yesterday! I probably know far less than all of you combined!"

"But that doesn't make any sense!" someone objected most redundantly.

"He said he was a colleague!" Lestrade cried.

"A colleague! How would Holmes get himself a colleague?"

Now Sherlock interfered, eyes glowing with rage. "Maybe by actually doing my bloody work, for God's sake, instead of whatever useless impact you have had on the world in the meantime!"

Janine had brought Mrs Hudson out of the room to escape this madness around here. The poor old lady could not handle stress very well when she felt at a loss of control over the situation, and especially when it was about people she cared a lot about.

The only remaining woman in the room had noticed her absence, and was finally trying to bring an end to this fight. "Stop it now, stop it! You have robbed a seasoned lady a bit of her dignity today, I hope you are all very proud of yourselves!"

Silence was finally beginning to keep the inner walls of everyone's heads to stop shaking, and the walls of this room to feel more grounding. She kept going, calm in voice and posture. "If Sherlock's new friend is going to be with us from now on, I believe we all owe him an introduction and an apology for behaving like tactless animals."

She took a step forward and held her hand out for John to take it. "Molly Hooper," was how she introduced herself, and he found her smile to be as pleasant as that of Mrs Hudson, at least in its honesty. "I am very sorry that this must be your first impression of our little group. It is usually a little wild, but never this wild. I think Sherlock's disappearance has affected us all a bit more than some of us like to let on." She glanced over to Anderson, then to Lestrade, whose face immediately changed into one of mild shame.

John was so thankful that Molly Hooper had stayed in the room. She created the steady rock in a raging storm they could all use right now, and John found himself holding onto it like a drowning man.

He gave her his most grateful of smiles."Dr John Watson. It's very nice to meet you. And I usually like wild."

Sherlock very loudly cleared his throat and took the liberty to position himself in the middle of them, and between John and Molly, and do the rest of the introductions himself. "Very well, everyone knows our little Doctor now, do we? Good, John, so you know Molly Hooper. Next to Molly we have … Tom?" looking at the one John had referred to as awkward up to now, and he nodded at the mentioning of his name, so yes, Tom.

"Then we have Bill Wiggins," who responded with a rather friendly, "Hullo!"

"Anderson," Sherlock continued. Anderson gave a sharp nod.

"Well, Sally Donovan you seem to already know for some reason," he rather murmured than said.

"And last but not least we've got our Inspector Lestrade."

"I'm sorry, Dr Watson, you've come to us at the wrong time and got caught up in all this," Lestrade began his own apology when he suddenly looked up to Sherlock again, "And could you bloody acknowledge my full name for once?" He continued in a barely audible mumbling Sherlock used to talk over. "Knows every fact under the sun and can't even remember three bloody letters in the right order..."

"On the contrary, Lestrade. I believe John Watson has come to us at exactly the right time."


	9. Wild Flowers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a long day full of new faces and the mere idea of a plan against Moriarty's intrigues, John is finally allowed to spend the rest of the evening all alone with that fascinating genius called Sherlock Holmes and a bottle of red wine.

After the heat of it all had cooled down enough and they all knew each other a bit better, the real plotting could finally begin. Once again, they were gathered around the table with Sherlock in the middle of it all, marking things on the map for them to remember.

"So Lestrade, Donovan and their lot of the police will investigate on all the crimes recently committed around London. We know Moriarty has a tendency to not leave his victims in one piece, and he might not always need to whole body to modify them for his purposes, even just the brain could be enough. Any findings even remotely recognisable as human shall be brought to Ms Hooper for detailed inspections."

"Only Hooper?" Anderson threw in with a frown. "You know I have been trained to do that sort of thing, right?"

"Yes," Sherlock replied and then paused, pretending to think something over for a second. "But she is better at it."

When Anderson's frustration took over his face, John had to look away to hide a grin from him.

"Wiggins and my Irregulars will look out for criminal activity around London, since the police is known to be too slow when it comes to important work, and report to me whatever arises suspicion." From the corner of his eye John could see Lestrade rolling his eyes.

"Dr Watson and those who work at The Prof are obviously in the best position to keep an eye on Moriarty. Any clue can be helpful in finding out where he brings the bodies or from where he leads his criminal net."

"Sorry," John had to ask, in curiosity and suspicion, and leant over to Sherlock in the most obvious of ways to whisper, "What is his job?" Of course he was referring to Tom, and Tom, well, noticed.

"Oh, ehm. I'm. I'm just here to help," Tom said, and this was probably the most innocent and honest thing he had heard all week. Or maybe it wasn't and he was just here to impress Ms Hooper. But John couldn't even properly blame him for that, as he himself was one foot in the door of similar intentions regarding a different person. He looked over to Sherlock to see him, really _see_ him, doing what he did best. Completely in his element of being a brilliant genius. _Damn_ , he thought. _Maybe even more than just_ one  _foot in the door._

"Tom is a boy for legwork," Sherlock then explained to him, matter-of-factly as if he would not talk about an individual person. "He is very good at spying and not as good at thinking. I've also heard he makes an excellent meat pie."

 

That was it then, apparently. Everyone knew what to do, had their tasks to stick with, and they would be updating everyone on their next meeting. Well, provided that there were no emergencies calling for immediate attention. Now each of them sort of went their own ways, Lestrade and Donovan nodding their goodbyes before heading back up, and everyone else just busied themselves around the room, making John feel once again invisible. He was beginning to feel a little lost, more or less waiting for Sherlock to tell him what they would do next. Like a loyal knight waiting for his command. Soon enough he felt ridiculous. This wasn't the knighthood and Sherlock wasn't his commander. This was the real life, a space in which ranks weren't obvious and didn't define how to behave around your opponent. In a city, of course, there was a similar thing with titles, but John doubted that with this curious group of people this should be the case.

Only now he noticed how Sherlock was staring at him. He blinked up to him, then shook his head to himself for having been lost in a daydream, and caught the other man hiding a smile.

"There's a back door," he quietly told him, with that rumble that happened to make appearances when he spoke.

John nodded, and soon enough they were on their way to leave this odd conspiracy of a basement behind to walk up a dark and narrow staircase made of stone. It seemed to never end and only get darker around them while they went upwards, upwards. John began to wonder how deep under the ground they had actually been, and if he might never see the light of day again. He felt the beginnings of that same uneasiness from before lurk over his shoulder once more. He didn't like dark and he didn't like narrow. Fortunately, in that moment a door opened before them, and finally they were finding themselves on the pavement of some London alley cast in the last bits of sunlight and the luminous glow of street lamps.

A glance at his pocket watch told John that it was already past seven in the evening. He imagined Sherlock still had plans. Doing some research of his own, maybe going undercover again … Something dangerous and exciting by all means. So John should probably bid him good night and not hold the detective up for much longer.

"So do you-"

"Dinner?"

John immediately shut his mouth. Sherlock looked back at him in anticipation, and his mouth did something that could be seen as a sign of nervousness, if it was anyone else. But this was Sherlock Holmes! Why would he be nervous about asking John if he would like to … Wait, had he really asked him if he would like to have dinner with him? _Oh_.

Sherlock started smiling a little smugly and tilted his head, as he had apparently said that out loud, that little _oh_ , and had given no other response to his request. But now he was doing that mouth thing from before again, practically giving himself away.

"I perceive you haven't eaten for several hours, not, in fact, since our breakfast this morning, otherwise it would show on your-"

"Yes."

"Yes?" Sherlock asked. Did this come as a surprise to him?

"When? Where?"

"Meet me in an hour. I've got one or two more things to do before. You will know where."

John held himself back from asking how he would know, but then remembered who he was talking to. He would find his way to let him know, of this he was certain. He couldn't even say goodbye before Sherlock had crossed the street and was wrapped in this odd gleam of shadows and mystery again that John was unable to take his eyes off. He looked after him with what could only be a silly little smile on his lips, and Sherlock's coat flapped dramatically in the wind as he disappeared around the corner. Oh, he knew he was looking after him. He must have. He was trying to impress.

"Hoo, it's freezing out here! I should've brought a coat."

John couldn't help but jump once, feeling somewhat caught in the act, as he heard the voice of Mrs Hudson behind him, and shortly after the door through which they had exited fell closed. He felt bad now about having left her behind, but then again, how could he have known she was leaving, too?

He turned around to face her, and she looked to the left and to the right. "Has he run off already?"

John nodded. "I fear you just missed him."

"Ah, don't worry about me now! I am certain I will be seeing a lot more of him again, bringing him his morning tea and cleaning up behind him," she said, but there was an unmistakable grin of relief and gratitude on her face. "I'm sure he has missed that. Oh, but the mess he makes sometimes!"

She chuckled a little. John joined in with a warm smile, and together they made their way down the street side by side, Mrs Hudson tucking her arm into his. John offered her his coat, since she had mentioned she was feeling cold, but she declined.

"What a fine gentleman you are!" she said. "And I imagine I will be seeing a lot more of you too from now on, Dr Watson?"

Suddenly, he felt a need to ask her again to take his coat, as he was getting very warm at her words. Was she sensing something? Could she see how he was really feeling towards Sherlock?

"So how long did Sherlock hide you from us? He does that, you know. When he wants a thing all for himself. You can't really blame him. I blame it on his brother a bit. Difficult relationship with those two."

_Sherlock had a brother?_

"Well, I know it's quite hard to believe, but I really only met him yesterday. Before you told me about him, I had never heard of him. So he didn't really... _hide_ me that long." Even though John liked that thought. He remembered the thrill he had felt at being alone with Sherlock in 221B. No one had known of his presence. They could have done whatever they liked in those rooms and no one would have ever known.

"Oh. I just thought, for he puts so much trust in you already. How did you two meet, then?"

They had reached the end of the street in a slow pace that kept the world from spinning too fast. Side by side they both preferred to be in a world of their own thoughts for now, after the mad pace of all the recent events around them. Still, the world of their thoughts appeared to be revolving around a somewhat mad and fireball-like persona. Maybe Sherlock Holmes was using witchcraft too, after all, to be stuck in the minds of those who meet him and stay there.

But now there was another persona making her way through John's thoughts, and, speaking of witchcraft, this was undeniably how they had met. Sherlock had not told anybody of those circumstances, and John was sure he had very good reasons not to do so. But it felt wrong, especially with them all working in the same building, to not at least leave a hint that there was something rather off with Irene Adler. He tried to be subtle. Maybe she would somehow figure it out on her own.

"I visited Ms Adler to see after her, you remember? As a test for Moriarty to judge what I'm worth, probably. That's, ehm. Yeah, that's where I met him."

"Oh, that devilish harlot! Oh, John, you must excuse my tongue, but I had hoped she wouldn't go that far."

"Wait, you knew about that? What she is?"

"Of course, everyone knows. It was really only a matter of time before she would do something horrible to one of us."

"But you- you talked to her and of her as if you were good friends!"

Mrs Hudson chuckled, apparently a bit bemused by John's lack of knowledge about what was going on around him. She patted his arm soothingly. "They all think of me as this jolly old woman too innocent to be aware of any danger in this world. You thought it, too. And I'd much like to keep it that way."

John gaped at her, very much at a loss for words. He thought he had just been taught an essentially important lesson. _Do not ever underestimate the strength and courage people store in their hearts._

"Mrs Hudson, you are quite something!"

She laughed at the compliment, and at some point they really had to part ways. John's flat was close and Mrs Hudson said she was to have dinner with some friends. Before they parted, however, she had one last thing to say to him.

"Thank you so much, dear, for bringing back our Sherlock. I won't ask for details unless he tells me, I promise. But you two take care of each other, you hear me?" It was meant to sound like a threat, maybe, but she couldn't keep up a straight face. Her smile came through.

"Promise," John said.

 

But what was that odd feeling that was springing back to life and flickering like a relit candle? Ah, the sense of purpose. The sense of hope to be finally, fortunately arriving somewhere he could belong.

It hit him quite hard, therefore, when he entered the depressing space that was his flat. It seemed to blow out every positive thought he had ever dared to think about the present. Why had he decided to come here? Right, he should change his clothes perhaps. He was wearing the same suit since yesterday, and to think that Sherlock could read every thought and each of his step taken since then – in the stains and creases of his dress shirt alone – made his self-esteem discrease further.

And oh, wasn't that a new way to look at his future? Here he was, about to dress up to have dinner with Sherlock Holmes. That was in itself, just like Mrs Hudson, quite something. Just as his life had the potential to be more than a string of nothingness that happened to him. The potential, in fact, to become an adventure. The potential to be _quite something_.

Excitement let the sphere in John's mind glow in which his thoughts flew around ungainly like little birds that had just learned how to fly. It glowed so brightly against the inner walls of his head that he felt nervous and excited, to the point where it was almost overwhelming, when in reality he was just sitting on the edge of his bed in the dark. Not a candle was lit, but he knew what outfit he was going to pick.

A simple dress shirt with a wingtip collar, a low cut black waistcoat, and a black suit jacket and trousers (he was surprised they still fit him). Around his neck he wore a navy blue bowtie that was complimenting his eyes (or so he had been told), and as a highlight he decided to put a flower into the pocket of his jacket – blue and grey, and out of some kind of soft metal. It had been a gift.  
  
He was only waiting now, waiting for a sign. Sitting on his bed he was barely able to keep his feet still as he expected something tremendous to happen. The sign of _Sherlock_. Telling him where they would meet. He imagined Sherlock would have planned something dramatic. A stone with a message attached flying through his window and breaking glass, a masked person entering the house and whispering the address to him – or even knocking him out and kidnapping to the restaurant!  
  
Alright. Maybe his imagination went a bit wild with that last one. Compared to all of his ideas, the way it really went down was almost a little disappointing. But if everything was to become an adventure, how would you know one when you see it?  
  
John checked his watch again, for what must have been the tenth time in the last three minutes. Three quarters past seven. An ugly kind of uneasiness blew his heart up and made it vulnerable. Had he forgotten about him? It seemed just like a thing Sherlock would do. Forgetting about people. He had said there was something he had to do first. Perhaps he was so preoccupied in that matter that dinner suddenly seemed like the most unimportant thing in the world to him.  
  
Then it occurred to John; Sherlock didn't eat. Had he forgotten about that, too? _Why would he want to have dinner if he couldn't eat?_ He was just about to give up on the last bit of hope, undress again and go to bed early when, as he was hanging his jacket over the nearest chair, he noticed something on his desk he couldn't remember putting there.  
  
_A telegram?_ He looked around. There was no one here, and therefore, obviously, no one who could have put it there either, but he was sure he would have seen it as he had entered the room earlier. Well, that was... odd. Certainly odd. The tiny glimmer of hope sparked up at this. He picked it up and read what it said. There were no more than two lines written on it.  
  
_Look out of the window._  
  
_S.H._  
  
A shiver ran down his spine. With a first reluctance, he went over to the window to look down on the street. Indeed, there was something waiting – for him, undoubtedly – right by his front door. A cab! The cabman didn't even have to look to him, (he was, in fact, looking into an invisible void in front of him like a man faced with death and accepting it) for John to know Sherlock meant for him to get in there.  
  
The two horses, a dark and a beige one, were snorting and were pawing the ground impatiently. The excitement rushed back into John with a force that felt dizzying. _Would Sherlock be in there?_ He eagerly threw on his suit jacket and his bowler hat and ran down the stairs, and half a minute later he was standing on the pavement in front of the hansom.  
  
He had to admit his disappointment to himself as he opened the door and found the carriage to be empty. Once he had closed the door the horses began to move and the cab was taking off. It was the thrill of the unknown that overshadowed the uneasiness within him. Only a good five minutes later, when he wasn't watching the city pass by anymore, he took note of the envelope next to him. Unobservant, Sherlock would've certainly called him. He opened it with gentle hands.

  
  
_Dear Doctor,_  
  
_“All art is at once surface and symbol. Those who go beneath the surface do so at their peril.”_  
  
_S.H._

  
  
He had absolutely no idea what he was trying to tell him there, but it sounded endlessly poetic. He wondered whose quote that was, as he felt as though he had heard it before.

The horses brought the hansom to a halt merely ten minutes later. As soon as John hopped off, he found himself inside a moving crowd on the pavement of a busy London night. Ladies in expensive dresses and gentlemen in top hats were trying to get passed him. Everyone had somewhere to be, everyone was trying to get somewhere during the last hours this day had to offer. And what about John himself? He looked up to a sign above his head. _The Landmarket_. Sherlock had not bothered with telling him the name of the place where they would meet. He entered without a second thought.

The restaurant was so full on this particular evening that it didn't look like there was even one empty table left to sit on. He was sure he must have seemed rather lost in that moment, standing two steps into the enormous dining room, admiring the posh décor and the even posher circle of guests around him. The strong feeling of discomfort was climbing into his chest and hiding there, fuelled further as his eyes were searching the room for Sherlock and not finding him. He could have made a mistake. Maybe this was the wrong place. Maybe Sherlock wouldn't show up after all.

"Dr Watson?"

His head snapped around. In front of him stood a tall waiter that seemed to have appeared out of thin air, smiling at him politely. The young man did not look a day over twenty-five, and he was gorgeous in a peculiarly flamboyant way, his thick brown hair long and wavy, framing his pale face. He looked like he belonged in a castle or, at least, in the theatre.

"May I bring you to your table, sir?"

There wouldn't have been enough time to object, so John buried his anxiety with the knowledge that this boy was his servant and therefore of lower prestige than himself. Even though he was beautiful, and beauty, he had learned, was always shameful to be wasted for the Englishmen. The waiter took his hat and jacket and left him to a table by the window, a little off from all the rest of tonight's baggage, and promised that a bottle of wine would be on the way. There was still no sign of Sherlock.

He tried to distract himself by taking a look at the menu. Quality, or poshness in that case, had its price, he supposed. While he looked through the variety of food, wondering how many deserts could begin with the letter _A_ alone before the rest of the alphabet was in sight, he didn't notice when the door of the entrance hall opened again. There was someone walking towards his table and as he looked up, expecting it to be the waiter with the wine, his mouth went dry. Completely dry within a half second.  
  
Sherlock Holmes walked through the room with a demanding aura that made everything around him blurry and shift, just to adjust to the way he walked. Elegance on long legs. There was more product in his hair and it shimmered in the light of the chandelier, a set of perfect chocolate curls crowning his head. He had forgotten about how pleasing it was to see his face, with its uncommon structures that created that odd sense of beauty neither man nor woman should ever claim for themselves. And the suit he wore, _oh my!_ Clinging to his slim waist was the white dress shirt with the sharp collar underneath a white waistcoat with soft, barely visible flower patterns, both items creating a hard contrast to the black tail-coat and black trousers; a combination that should not have worked, but worked so beautifully for him.  
  
John felt blinded by the sight of him. It would have been appropriate, for he certainly was the personalisation of elegance herself tonight. The legs of his chair scraped the floor as he stood up hastily and held his hand out to greet him. "Good evening, Mr Holmes!"  
  
Sherlock took his hand and held it there between them.

"Mr Holmes?" Bemusement sparkled in his sky blue eyes.  
  
"Well, I just thought," started John, but stopped and looked around. There was no one who could hear them.  
  
"Oh, don't concern yourself with high society's short minded folk that gathers here, Doctor. I picked this spot for a reason. No need to bother oneself with more people than strictly necessary."  
  
"Bother?" John quirked a brow, and Sherlock gave him a look.  
  
"You know how I mean it."  
  
They sat again. Sherlock seemed to take a look at the menu himself now, so the noises of distanced chitchat, chinking silverware and toasting glasses came through again. John's eyes were roaming around the room. High society, indeed.  
  
"Quite the full house tonight."  
  
"Hmh," Sherlock agreed without looking up. "More like every night. Booked out for weeks in advance sometimes."  
  
"Ah. But wait. How did you get a table within an hour, then?" He couldn't have planned this long beforehand, let along weeks before. Unless, of course, predicting the future was on the list of all his countless talents.  
  
"Yes, well. Let's just say the owner may owe me a favour."

The wine arrived as if on cue. Not in the hands of the pretty waiter from before but held by a grey haired, big man with a broad grin on his face.

"Mr Holmes!"

"Ah, good evening, Lord Angelo."

"Tonight's recommendation," he said, holding up the bottle. "Italy's finest! I know you like the red." The man spoke with an accent. Italian, presumably.

"Lord Angelo, this is Dr John Watson," Sherlock introduced him.

"Very pleased to meet you." The man poured them two glasses of wine and left the bottle on the table. It looked expensive, and John began to worry a little. He didn't have that much money on him, or rather not in general, to pay for expensive.

Lord Angelo suddenly clapped Sherlock on the shoulder, smiling ever so brightly. "This man is a saint, my friend! Got me off a murder charge."

Sherlock looked slightly embarrassed, but nodded anyway. John would've laughed, almost, because there should be no way for him to be more impressed by Sherlock, but that story gave him a badly needed reassurance of his good heart (and why it was still worth being found).

"Everything you'd like on the menu, free, for you and for your companion!"

Sherlock ordered for him in Italian (the rumbling of his voice wrapped nicely around the rolled _R_ s) and Angelo went off again before John could object to anything. _Companion_. It should be flattering, really, but for some reason felt so... unsatisfying.

"So that's why?" John asked with a smile.

"Yes, that's why. He's always too generous, it wasn't all that special."

John quirked a brow at him, this kind of easy communication needing no words. Sherlock waved him off. Talking to him about generosity where modesty would be the more appropriate term. He took a sip from his wine glass – good Lord, that was a nice brand! – and was well aware of Sherlock watching him. Again, his thoughts or considerations at this point were hidden behind his poker face. He could have imagined to taste the drink on his own tongue or he could be deducing how long it has taken John to pick the suit he was wearing.

After a time, Sherlock cleared his throat so suddenly that it could only be meant as an announcement. "So. How do you know..."

"Hmh?"

"Sally Donovan?"

"Ah, uh, that's. Well." Oddly, John found he was somehow embarrassed about the circumstances under which he had met the police officer; hopeless and uncaring about life, a pathetic broken man ready to get tight in the first pub he could find. "In- at a bar, actually. She worked there, eh, undercover work, I presume?"

Sherlock nodded.

"Right. And when she saw my gun she didn't say anything, which might make a little more sense, looking back on it now-"

"Hold on."

"Since she is not only police but is also fighting crime in ways that are less official-"

"You still own a gun?"

He noticed how wide Sherlock's eyes had become once he looked up in shock over his volume. "Would you," he looked around, "keep your voice down a bit?" Despite (or perhaps explicitly because of) the still lingering fear of being overheard a grin stole itself on his face.

"Do you?" He asked once more, quieter this time.

John gave a sharp nod and tried to finally forget the people around him. They really were in a corner here – even those not engaged in tipsy talk wouldn't have heard anything. Sherlock looked at him with slightly open-mouthed smile, eyes sparkling as if John had been brilliant. Being eyed like this should feel intimating, inappropriate, but right here with him it was thrilling, it was praise.

"You should have said so earlier."

Before any of them could say another word, John's food was being delivered by the dashing bloke with the long hair and the polite smile. He couldn't help but do a double take as the man leant down to place the plate in a perfect angel in front of him. When he was gone and John took the first bite (absolutely delicious) he took his time before swallowing, drank another sip of wine and cleared his throat.

"What about you, then? You and Lestrade? How did all of that... happen?"

Sherlock took a deep and dramatic breath that drew John's full attention. "Lestrade and I have made a deal a long while ago. I used to solve cases for him – still do, in fact – but things became … stranger around London. He and I both noticed. Whenever they couldn't make sense of a crime committed, they consulted me, but Lestrade was the only officer smart enough to know that when even I failed to connect the dots – because there _weren't_ any – something had to be off."

"You trusted each other," John tossed in, trying to gulp down the tiniest twinge of unreasonable jealousy as hard as possible.

"If you want to put it like that. He was certainly the most useful of the Yarders, given that this is not a particularly difficult art to master."

John snorted in order to suppress a laugh.

"There were others, acquaintances of us both, who also became suspicious. So we built a, well, he calls it a team, but let's say a group of people skilled enough to help solving the crimes that lack logical explanations."

"Vampyres." The word sounded awestruck as it left his mouth.

"Amongst other things. There is a lot more of the supernatural around us than the bare eye would recognise as such."

"And you all help out with that?" John asked while twirling up some of the pasta with his fork.

"We do what we can. The advantages of being a group of very diverse members is that the range of skill within it can be very wide. The disadvantages however … Well, you have seen for yourself today, I suppose."

"So why won't you tell your own team then?"

"Tell them what? Oh. Yes, that."

Sherlock didn't say anything else after this. He seemed to want to say something, but just kept his lips pressed together. (A debate between the head and the gut?) After a while he cleared his throat once, then took a big sip of wine (John really worried if liquid was at all good for him), just to avoid his gaze again.

John understood. He really did. With a chest-tightening, fist-clenching clarity he understood how he felt. The man had died, for God's sake! He had died, and the body in which he now walked this earth wasn't his own. This couldn't possibly do any good for a confused soul, nor the fragile essence it was made of. Dying must have felt like a failure for Sherlock. Even if he wouldn't admit it, even if he kept on pretending it was only the transport formed by flesh and bones that he had lost and that he was still the same ... Death changed people.

Of course, John had limited experience on that particular thing, but then again, he didn't. The night in the forest – the night he had been bitten – a part of him had died back there. He had been convinced that it was over, had said his goodbyes to the world, and he had accepted death. Had been more than willing to tolerate the short period of unbearable pain the bite inflicted, and then a part of him had separated from him to raise to heaven or to hell. He would never know. And he would never see it again.

Whatever had followed after, he had responded to it with ignorance. Through a miracle and the hands of Major James Sholto he had stayed alive, and remained yet dead inside. He had felt that way for what could have been an eternity. And then, due to a meeting he hesitated to call destiny, he had risen. Now he was sitting here in this overly expensive restaurant and felt highly out of place, but at the same time didn't at all because opposite him there was the most fascinating and excited creature he had ever had the good fortune to meet. He wouldn't want to be anywhere else. And that was all that counted right now.

"Look. You don't have to explain. I understand. Apologies for asking."

Sherlock looked up with an expression full of objection. "John-"

"No. Sherlock. It's fine. _I understand_." There was so much sincerity and exposure in those last words that John felt like he had just laid all of his worst memories open for him to see. He swallowed down the urge to take it back and instead stretched out a hand over the table to touch Sherlock's wrist.

They didn't break eye contact once their eyes had found each other, and John could see the exact moment something clicked in Sherlock's hard working brain. His eyes widened just a fraction and his lips parted to form the tiniest _Oh_.

John was the first to look away again, and he forced himself to focus on his food. "This does make you a little bit human, you know?" he said, trying to make it sound incidental, while shoving some noodles around on his plate.

Sherlock responded with a huff. They both knew. They had shared this moment and it couldn't be taken back anymore. John's stomach felt funny. It wasn't because of the food. That, if you must know, was disappointingly excellent. Which meant the food for ordinary mortals would never taste as good again.

"So tell me, Doctor," Sherlock raised his voice out of the blue after some time of having been lost in thought. "What do you do?"

John tried to suppress a laugh. He failed. "Are we really doing this?"

"Doing what?"

"This." He made a gesture between them, unable not to grin. "Now. Getting to know each other after ... well, everything. You're a bit mad."

"Maybe," Sherlock whispered with a tiny smile on his lips, looking down at his fingers or the tablecloth.

"And you know what I do," John added warmly.

"Tell me."

He found Sherlock's undefinable eyes on him again. Alright, he would play this game with him. They had done sillier things together. "I work. I work, well, two jobs at the moment. Or even three, if you will. If we count me working for you, too."

"With me," he corrected him. John licked his lips at this.

"So this is my life now. This is what I do. It must sound quite tedious, but to be fair, it isn't really. Since I've met you."

He could swear Sherlock's face shifted into something softer at this, something a little too proud to appear shy. Something in between those two things.

"Yes. This is what I do." He repeated, and took another sip of wine. It ran down his throat and left a somewhat bitter taste with a hint of fruit, subtly rising to his head and made it lighter. Made his smiles even less rare, kept him from hiding it so often. Made his eyes shine brighter.

"Is this what real people do?" Sherlock asked gently. They both weren't quite serious in this conversation. It felt fantastic.

"What? Spying on criminals, killing witches?" He chuckled, then took one more sip. "No, I don't think so. Real people have ... other real people in their lives. With less magic involved."

"Am I not a real people?"

John huffed a laugh. "I'm still not so sure about that." He looked down at his plate and found that he wasn't hungry anymore. Well, or maybe he was, but just wasn't interested in eating anymore. "And what do you do?"

"Hmh?"

"What do you do all day? Solving mysteries? Are you seeing someone? Maybe ignore that last bit."

"If you must know," Sherlock tilted his head with a pointed look and a mocking smile, "Yesterday has made me curious as to what this body is able to do. Hence, I tried out one thing or another."

"And?"

"It was fairly enlightening."

John tried very hard, and tried genuinely, not to let his mind wander at this. It was only that the way Sherlock said it suggested... well, actually it didn't suggest anything. John simply liked him too much (and in the wrong way), so he imagined things. Imagined Sherlock trying out one thing or another. But then he remembered that this was the same man who had not known he could fire bullets from a gun in his arm. Which reminded him again that he was dangerous. And how inconvenient it was that it had ever since been the dangerous people he fancied the most.

"What did you do, then? What did you do before all this?"

Sherlock waved a hand in his direction. "Ah, a lot of brainwork. It would bore you."

"I'm sure it won't."

"I create inventions. Nothing the general folk would be interested in. Just my private little experiments. Hoping to find new ways to catch a criminal. It has a lot to do with chemistry, understanding the human body. In between I solved cases."

John smiled up at him. "That sounds like you didn't ever get any sleep."

"I didn't. Never with a clear head, at least. Sleeping always means giving up control over myself. I used to only do so when I decided to do it actively. When I wasn't on a case, I worked on something else. Like tinkering. But that... that's not really important."

_Never with a clear head? That didn't sound healthy._

"Everything we love is important," John assured him.

Sherlock's eyes dropped as his lips formed a sad smile. He watched those full lips for far too long before Sherlock bit his bottom lip, and before he knew it, the intensity of his eyes struck him again.

"I am."

"What?"

"I am seeing someone." Sherlock frowned at him, and the sad smile became a smirk that let John's heart skip a beat. _His company was dangerous_.

John's turn to look away and smile to himself. Sherlock was too beautiful not to look at, so he was forced to look at anything but him. His thick curls, his eyes that displayed so much to live for, his porcelain skin. The light of the sparkling chandeliers paired with the danger of his smiles allowed him to be sinfully divine.

His mind wandered for a second, or two, or fifty. This man was different from the one he had believed to have seen in Inspector Lestrade's office. Then and there, Sherlock had seemed to him so cold. But he wasn't. Which was an ironic thing to call a machine, wasn't it? When their ways had crossed for the first time, he had anticipated him to be a threat, had been quite suspicious, and rightly so, of everything he had claimed to be the truth. But now? Now he could very likely be the most human being he had ever had the pleasure to encounter.

"I can hear you thinking, Doctor."

As John looked up, Sherlock had leant in closer towards him over the table, chin resting on his intertwined hands and his elbows braced on the tablecloth.

To be quite honest, with those keen eyes of his (blue now, mirroring the sky on a cloudless summer day London rarely saw) John could almost believe he might have heard him. Thinking. Thinking about him.

"You said 'later'," he explained in quiet tones, handling everything said on this table, in those shared moments of a companionship free of duty, like a precious secret between them.

"I did say that."

"So?" John waited.

"So." Sherlock let him wait.

"Running off without telling your friends. Abandoning people. That's something you do?"

" _Friends_." Sherlock repeated that word as if its very concept was something he was unfamiliar with and suspicious of.

John let out a sigh, having hoped the detective would pick up on the actual message behind his words. "Look," he tried again. "I've met people like you before."

Sherlock snorted deprecatingly. "You will understand I have my reasons to doubt that."

But John continued, "Some just aren't made to play by the rules. There is nothing wrong with that."

Sherlock had been about to stop him, but at that last bit he waited and eyed him with an expression altered by mesmerisation. As though anyone else he had met before had told him that plenty of things would be wrong with that. With him.

"It becomes wrong or, let's say, difficult, _dangerous_ , once you stop working on your own. When there are people who rely on you, trusting you to rely on them and so on."

Sherlock frowned.

"I'm not- please, I know what this sounds like. I am not trying to lecture you, to criticise your work. Alright, perhaps that last one, a tad. But what I am actually trying to tell you is ... I do know what happens when one is playing the hero. I have experienced it, I have seen deaths, many, many deaths. Deaths that could have been so easily prevented. It was the hardest part of my job in the knighthood. To see men die, good men, women, and tell my troop they had died for a greater cause when I knew with every cell in my body that they have not. If only everyone had played by the rules."

He held the heavy weight of Sherlock's gaze on him, who looked... fascinated. Interested. Comprehending. Of course he was, he always was. One of the perks that came with being a genius, probably. But what caught John the most was the amount of not simply intellectual comprehension but an interest on an emotional level as well.

He wanted to tell him so much more, think of everything he had ever learned, known and forgotten and lay it bare for him to observe. He enjoyed Sherlock's fullest attention far too much and far too thrillingly.

"I have known a man, one good man. My previous commander. One day, he lost everyone. No knight of his troop survived but him, because of one small mistake, because of one wrong decision he made. It has left him with more than just scars, and he was never the same. So maybe now you understand-"

"I understand."

"-because if we are to work together, you and I and everyone else I have met tonight, I need you to promise this."

Their eyed locked with a flicker of desperation and importance in the air between them. Something was about to change. It would crush down on both of them, on everyone they knew and the world in itself, and it would leave them to be changed men.

"You have already died once, Sherlock," John breathed in awe and despair. "You are not going to die on me, too."

And Sherlock sucked in a sharp breath, but nodded. "Promise."

 

"One last thing," Sherlock said as they had made it out of the restaurant. The rest of the evening was quite wonderful. The food was delicious, the wine had done what it had been supposed to do so exquisitely, and the company ... Well, that would go without saying. He was beautiful. He was clever. And he seemed to like him back. A heavy weight had been lifted off John's chest tonight, and in its place there had slipped butterflies with beating wings.

"Yes?" he asked with a smile. The red wine was preventing it from leaving his face for quite some time now.

"Earlier this night you have accused me of playing the hero. It is very unwise to make people into heroes, Doctor."

"I know," John said, with the same smile he blamed on the wine. In fact, he blamed every word that continued to leave his mouth on that good Italian beverage.

"But if there was only one in the world," he whispered, and put his hand to Sherlock's strangely warm cheek, stunning the detective and reducing him to blown eyes and motionlessness, "it would be you."

They said no more. John left him with this, feeling brave, feeling daring, young again. Feeling dangerous at having done this, given this little intimate touch to another man so openly, for the world to see. This time, he had been the one to make the impressive exit, to leave the magnificent man, who had stunned him and seen him gaping and speechless so many times, unable to find the words. John walked down the street while biting his lips that formed the grin of a fool with a racing heart, and at the same time he fled. Fled before he could have said more, done more, exposed more. He was already far too involved.

His own heart was now in a dangerous place.


	10. Poseidon and the Supernova

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John tries to adjust to the fact that his life is now regulated by different kinds of maniacs. He decides to be where Sherlock Holmes needs him to, and once he realises that Moriarty will put his dubious plans into action much sooner than they expected, he knows that there is no other way. He has to be involved and fight.

The next day, after almost having overslept thanks to the outrageously delicious wine from the previous night and the nightmare-free hours of sleep, he finally found enough courage to quit his job. Especially Sarah Sawyer was disappointed to hear of his decision. It came to such a surprise, she said, for John had seemed to have grown rather passionate about it, if a little bit tired, over the past few days in particular.

Of course, John couldn't tell her that his mood was actually only improving with the help of this one undead detective who was also a genius, and yes, also partially a cyborg these days, and that it had little to do with the tedious work in the clinic. Instead he simply claimed to have moved on, whereupon Sarah told him that the lady must be a lucky woman. That was when John began to think that perhaps he was being a bit too obvious.

From there on everything seemed easier. By now he had gotten to know most of the people that were swarming in and out or all around him each day at The Prof and he was very happy to discover that even the worst of them weren't that bad. The only difficulty was that he couldn't look 'Jane' in the eye anymore without biting the insides of his mouth at the bunch of mixed feelings he felt for her. Otherwise it was almost a pleasant atmosphere in the house. He could not claim to ever be bored, and luckily Mrs Hudson was the perfect source to gain back some sanity if lost.

It was rare to see or hear of James Moriarty or his six foot plus sized pet. Mary he saw once in a while, mostly to check on her foot or when she was dancing. There was something undeniably fascinating about the way she moved as if in ecstasy and the way in which she would jump through the air, crawl over the floorboards, throw back her head. Her performance had something so distinctively dangerous to it. She could make you feel intimated if you did not watch her. Made you wonder what she would do if you looked away. She was just so hard to define. John did not trust her one bit.

Hours later, close to the end of his shift, he was walking down the small hallway behind the stage, doctor's kit in hand, just about to turn around the corner and enter the main hall. He stopped in his tracks. There was something off. His instincts told him so before he was able to be rational about it. He felt watched, suddenly, and swore he could hear the breath of whispers from somewhere far in the darkness of the narrow hallway and very close to him all at once. As close as thoughts, as if he was just thinking to himself. But then someone got into his head and thought with him in a language he didn't understand. He knew he was a paranoid person. He _knew_ that. But he had taken this path often enough by now and he had never felt this uneasy.

Cautiously, walking in a posture prepared to fight off an enemy or defend himself, he turned around the corner. But it was already too late.

A cold whiff of air was surrounding his whole form. In the span of a split second, his body slammed into the hard wood by a force that could have belonged to an animal. He took one last breath before all the air was sucked out of his lungs by the impact. A set of icy fingers and sharp nails was boring into his throat, pressing him into the wall, making his shoulders ache. He closed his eyes from the shock, trying not to fall into a state of panic at the intimidating presence of sharp claws around his neck, keeping him from breathing. The last time he had been forced to cling to the last shallow breaths and feel his heart dying, he had been bleeding out on the dirty battleground. As his eyes snapped open again, burying the memories, he was looking into the steel-like eyes of Irene Adler.

He swallowed deeply, or tried to, the lump in his throat pressing against the pressure of the witch's strong grip. He wanted to break free from her fangs, but he realised with a face of terror that his limbs felt numb at her touch. He couldn't move and there was a weight, not only pressing him against the wall behind him but also further into the ground, as if some higher power had changed the laws of gravity.

"John Watson." She spat out those words like they had been trapped within her red framed mouth long enough to turn into an insult. Like she had waited long enough to decide how to make it sound the most disgusting.

John even felt disgusted for himself at hearing his own name spoken like this. A feeling of shame kept his mouth shut, but he found that even if he had wanted to open it, to protest, to scream, it was impossible.

"Who are you?" she hissed, hissed her words at him like a snake. "You don't belong here. You are an invader, an impudence! You must know that by now, do you not?"

He couldn't answer. _Impossible, impossible!_

She tilted her head in an unnatural, reptilian way and smiled a smile without joy.

"Were you surprised to see me back here? You looked surprised. A helpless little pet you are. Caught up in the game of something it could never understand."

There was a form of truth in those words that was almost refreshing to hear, like a shove into the direction of an old, ugly state of comfort, of affiliation. It was the reminder of what he really was, of where he belonged and where he didn't. A cruel truth he found himself agreeing with. What he didn't agree with, however, were the shattering threats of Moriarty's little puppet. They had killed her, he had seen her die and her body distribute into a thousand spiders, and now here she was. Alive. Unmistakably inhuman.

John wanted to tell her many things at once. The biggest of them being an insult, an apology and a cheap explanation for how it could have come to this. ( _"This is all a big misunderstanding!"_ ) She wouldn't let him speak. It was as if his vocal cords had been cut like wires by her ruthless hands.

"You don't have to get involved for him, you know? Your walnut mind can't even comprehend yet what you are about to be caught up in, John. Why throw your life away for Sherlock Holmes?"

She spoke in soft tones, but her voice was off. A layer of a second, a lower voice had embraced her throat and made it sound like two or three people speaking at once. The result was a creepy choir of sing-sang quiet, very quiet chanting.

_Why throw your life away for Sherlock Holmes?_

He decided to simply spit in her face. She snarled in fury, her face twisting like that of a demon fighting against exorcism, and her grip tightened viciously around his throat.

“Listen to me, you ratbag! Fancy playing the hero one more time and I will be there. You won't be able to run or hide from me and I will kill you very slowly, make you feel every atom of your pathetic being while I skin you and lay eggs in whatever will be left of your ripped out organs.”

She would kill him. The thought ran soberly through his head on a line that was just on the verge of panic. She would either choke him or crush his windpipe before he got the chance to gasp for air.

"ATTENTION, I SAID!"

Irene's head snapped to the door to their left. That cry belonged to no other than James Moriarty. They both knew what that meant. They were wanted somewhere else, no time for little games like this.

She retreated from him, and he finally remembered what it felt like to breathe again. She was gone, leaving John weak and his body boneless. He broke down to his knees, coughing and wildly snapping for air. The Woman would regret this, he swore to himself. He brought his fingertips to his neck, trying to estimate the level of her imposed injury, and hissed in pain. It would bruise at the very least.

He adjusted the standing collar of his white shirt to hide the reddening skin, tilted his head to the left and to the right and rolled his shoulders. Taking it all and moving on. Into whatever mad idea the next lunatic would have in mind for him.

 

Entering the main hall, he was honestly glad that his status of invisibility had apparently returned to him. Moriarty could have exposed him, but he was not paying attention to the unimportant doctor sneaking past the gathered crowd of staff in front of the stage to make his way to Mrs Hudson. He figured Irene had not told him about him and Sherlock. Which didn't quite make sense, did it?

He was standing on the stage, clearly enjoying all the attention of his employees. They were listening now, after his outbreak. (He had this habit of turning absolutely monstrous). His pet was by his side, loyal and broad-shouldered like his fallen guardian angel.

"What's going on?" he asked once he had made it to the back of the crowd where Mrs Hudson was standing with her arms crossed.

She leant towards him as she whispered, "He is making preparations."

"Preparations?"

He watched him walk up and down on stage, arms behind his back. He reminded him of a caged animal behind bars, having lost its mind from being watched by thousands of eyes for too long. But despite Moriarty being one man against a good twenty, his position left no room for misinterpretations: He was the superior party in this scenario and all the scenarios yet to come. Something mad and deadly was looking out of the darkness of those eyes.

"For the ball," Mrs Hudson explained, but didn't explain further.

"Ball? What ball?"

He looked up at the stage again. Moriarty was smiling proudly, like a dictator watching his army expand. He didn't understand what he was saying because he wasn't listening, was too focused on his own thoughts and how that smile was making his hairs stand on end. He tried to spot Mary amongst the staff around them, but there was no sign of her.

"He announced a huge ball he will be hosting here at The Professor. Events like this are not unusual, but I have to say this one sounds quite spontaneous, even for him."

As she clarified the situation, John saw red flags waving in his head. Why was Mrs Hudson so calm about this? Didn't she suspect anything bad to emerge from this?

"Uhm, and shouldn't we tell Sherlock about this?"

"Sherlock? Oh, this sounds a bit forward, don't you think? I wouldn't want him to worry too much right now."

John turned his head away from her to not let her witness his eyes narrowing. _Wouldn't want him to worry?_ As far as he remembered the plan was to get in touch as soon as something seemed off or noteworthy. A spontaneous ball at The Prof was definitely both of those things. How could she not think so?

"And of course," Moriarty's voice came through again, exclaiming loudly, "What a show it would be without our beautiful jewel in the crown: Irene Adler!"

Shortly after, Ms Adler was joining them as she walked up to the stage, placing herself next to James Moriarty. She was smiling proudly, a living trophy being shown off, and she was now wearing a different dress; a white one that was emphasising innocence where there was none and grace where there was too much of it.

"Oh, and pardon me for keeping you from your work for just a moment longer, but then again, I'm not actually sorry. There is one more person worth noting, and I think they deserve their little round of applause as well for what they're doing here."

_It's got to be Mary_ , he thought while watching that murderous trio, all young and handsome and just as equally toxic. Mary was in on it, too. She had to be. But he still hadn't caught sight of her today.

"Dr Watson!"

John's heart recoiled in his chest and his eyes blew wide at the sound of his name from that man's mouth. He could not be serious, this had to be a joke!

"Where are you hiding, my boy? Come on up here, we won't bite!"

This earned a general quiet chuckle from the crowd and a louder, rough one from Moran. It seemed as though he had no choice. That had already been made for him. He threw a glance at Mrs Hudson, but she only looked at him with a face full of sympathy, her eyes sending a clear message: _Just get it over with._

He began to move, stepping closer to the stage, and watched in genuine surprise as the people started to step back, making room for him to get through. If there was one moment he had wished for attention, it would literally be any but this one. He met Irene's eyes as he reached the stage, her smile being more scary in its falsehood than anything else she could have done to him. Soon he stood in line next to James Moriarty to his right and the witch to his left, forcing himself to look as far from uncomfortable or outright horrified as he could manage.

"Dr John Watson," Moriarty announced, "Having been here for so little a time, and already done so much good. He cured our beloved Ms Adler on his very first day, did you know? What a remarkable man!"

Applause was filling the room. Oh God, John just wanted it to stop. Suddenly, he felt something grabbing his hand, and then something far more cold taking his other hand, too. Moriarty and Irene both held his hand, and John saw that Moran and Moriarty were intertwined as well. They all bent forward to bow to the crowd, just like it was done at the end of a play. John's head grew heavy and dizzy as they forced him to bow with them again, applause filling his ears. Everything was breaking in on him at once. The sharp claws around his neck, the spiders, the numbness of his limbs and the knowledge that he was handing his weaknesses on a silver platter to anyone who was willing to watch. He wanted to throw up in their faces. He just wanted this to be over, and they bowed down again.

 

Thirty minutes later, everyone had gone back to work. John had run off to hide in one of the rooms where they kept the costumes after he had finally been allowed to leave the stage. His head was still buzzing. Luckily, he had heard no complaints about his absence yet, so he decided to head outside and let himself have some lungs full of fresh air. Maybe that would clear his foggy mind. But before he could make it to the hallway of the main entrance, a small boy with long curly hair came running around the corner.

"Telegram! Telegram for Dr Watson!"

He took a sharp breath. "I am Dr Watson."

"Then this must be for you, sir."

The boy handed him a telegram and ran off as soon as he had come and to wherever he had come from. John looked after him in wonder. He could not recall having seen him here before. Shrugging his shoulders, he held the piece of paper up to read it.

 

_Come at once if convenient_

 

There was nothing else written on it, so John instinctively turned it around.

 

_If inconvenient, come anyway_

_S.H._

 

The instant thrill of excitement rushed through his veins, starting from the back of his neck to his arms and fingertips. He was involving him. He needed him. At once, he said. There was only one problem...

Mrs Hudson was just walking down the hall from the reception.

"Mrs Hudson-"

"Dr Watson, there you are. There is a hansom waiting outside."

"I have to- what?"

"It's alright, dear. He won't notice your absence."

John, being already on his way in his head, forced himself to hesitate. He wouldn't feel at peace with himself feeling like his head-over-heels decisions were putting other people in danger.

"Are you certain it won't cause any trouble?"

Mrs Hudson gave him a tight but reassuring smile and put her hand to his shoulder. "Dr Watson, I believe you are needed elsewhere. And between you and me, I think a lady like me can handle a bit of trouble. Experience, isn't that what you young people call foolishness these days?"

She winked at him, and John felt a grin parting his lips.

"Mrs Hudson, you're a saint." He put a quick kiss to her forehead, and off he was. Throwing himself into the next command of Sherlock Holmes, taken off by a cab with unknown destination.

She looked after him with a smile filled with hope and worry. Of course, she was perfectly convinced that John Watson was very able to take care of himself – of Sherlock and him both, perhaps – but she couldn't shake off the worry. The worry of what was yet to come. The worry of Sherlock leaving them again.

 

***

 

There was no telegram in the hansom this time. He caught himself wishing they would have been. That the quote from last time would have been a clue, that Sherlock wanted him to solve a puzzle. Just as a little activity, a little game. Another secret only between the two of them. Instead there were only empty seats and one strange hat with two fronts on one of them. It looked like it had ears. Probably a forgotten accessory from a previous passenger.

The wheels rattled and the horses' hooves carried him through the broad and stone-paved streets of the city. He was surprised to find most of his surroundings to feel familiar. Huge buildings embroidered where architecture met the heart of an artist. They never left the main roads. When the cab suddenly stopped, John looked up with a frown. The world outside of the window didn't seem any different from every other place, any other day in the centre of a busy city. There was nothing unusual to be seen, no reason for Sherlock to be asking for him, urging him to come, in fact. There was no sign of him either. The car had come to a halt, and now instead of the rattling of wheels on rough stone paths, the snorting of the horses was the only sound that kept the cab alive.

John wriggled about on his seat, unsure if he should get out or not.

"Have we arrived already?" he asked.

"Why, you askin' me, boy?"

The door, the one John had his back turned to, had swung open and an old, bearded face was poking through. John jumped to the skip of the beat in his chest.

"Jesus!"

This had to be the cabbie, hadn't it? He had hopped off to see after John. To see why he would not leave the hansom. His face was uncomfortably close to his, so that his big, crooked nose appeared even bigger. He wore his hair long and light grey, just like his full beard, and a small and round pair of sunglasses was covering his eyes.

"You tell me where you wanna go," he told him through a set of yellow teeth and with a cranky voice, "I tell you when we arrive."

"I, uhm, I am not actually sure of where it is I need to go."

The driver laughed, but it was not happy nor was it pleasant. "You get into a cab without knowing where 'tis you wanna go?"

_It worked quite well last night_ , John thought to fight his embarrassment.

"One of the mad ones, aren't you? What, you just ride with a stranger 'cos someone told you to? You one of that sort?"

_What sort?_ John simply watched the old man in silent disgust and with even more pity for himself. Where was Sherlock? Who was this man? Or had he walked right into someone else's threat?

"Well, no funny heads like you in my cab, boy."

John shifted closer to the window before the man could stop him to see if there was anyone – Sherlock, Lestrade, anyone! – who knew him, who could help him if this really was a trap. His hand was on his gun. The hand of the man grabbed him by his sleeve.

John's head snapped around in anger. "Listen-"

"John."

His mind slowed down. He didn't understand. That was Sherlock's voice, so close, so deep, but...

The man had taken off his sunglasses and now, mere inches from his own face, John was staring into a pair of eyes full of mint, like the bud of a cherry blossom in early spring.

"Sherlock?" It hushed out under his breath. He couldn't wrap his mind around it.

Sherlock stripped the fake beard from his (fake) skin and put it down onto the seat, followed by the wig on his head and, last but not least, the crooked nose.

John was gaping.

"So, Doctor. Are you planning to stay in here all day?"

John closed his eyes and took a deep breath, calmingly adjusting his hat. He took another breath. Then all of a sudden he pushed past Sherlock to get out and walk.

"Sherlock Holmes, I cannot believe you."

Sherlock was now walking next to him and they moved to cross the road. He had taken the two-sided hat from the back seat and pulled it down over his forehead. The outfit that he had let his cabman wear fell uncommonly over his lean body, made him look not broader but just somehow more. The thick brown coat and the old washed-out scarf didn't fit his personality at all.

"Oh, it wasn't that hard. A little skilled make-up, a bit of-"

John shook his head in disbelief. "Why, Sherlock? Why would you even?"

"So that no one would recognise me, obviously. Do you think I could play as a cabman looking like a dead detective and not raise suspicion in London?"

"Oh, you would have found another way to bring me here, I have no doubt. But you didn't. You thought this was funny." He sounded more bitter, more rough than he was aiming for. He wasn't that angry. It was, after all, kind of impressive of him to have pulled that off.

"It was a tiny bit funny."

That, however, earned Sherlock a snort. They had reached the other side of the street and were just approaching a huge building. It was a museum, or so it read on the front, and its design summed up the nostalgia of old Greek architecture in its sand coloured stone façade and its large pillars and its statues on the roof. John began to wonder what they could possibly be doing here.

"And how did you get that cab?!"

"Shush." One corner of Sherlock's mouth gave a twitch before he forced his attention elsewhere. Now John finally started to get a clue as to what the meaning of this could be.

"Holmes, there you are!" Lestrade greeted them, looking a bit impatient but genuinely glad to see them.

"Lestrade." Sherlock kept his hands behind his back, but John instinctively stretched his hand out to the inspector.

"I see you have brought Dr Watson again." They shook hands. "How do you do."

"Of course," Sherlock said, lightening John's mood a little. _Of course he had brought him_. "Now show us, will you? There is a murderer on the loose, I presume?"

"Well, about that. We are still … I guess you'll see for yourself. Just follow me. It's at the courtyard."

The yard was full of what could only be people of the police, walking up and down and around one body and a puddle of blood on the ground. Or rather, one half of a body. Sally Donovan was approaching them with a look of displeasure on her face.

"Still no further findings, sir."

"That's why I brought help," Lestrade said, and Donovan's gaze fell on Sherlock, seemingly highly unimpressed.

"Well, try your luck then." Which was how she left them again to talk to someone else.

Lestrade started to explain while they walked. "Last night one guard of the museum has never come home, at least according to his wife. Hence, we suspect that this corpse is, or used to be, Alexander Woodbridge. However, the identification is a little difficult."

As they came closer, it got unmistakably clear as to what Lestrade meant by that. The corpse lying there was only half a corpse. Its whole torso and everything from the waist upwards was missing. Blood was still leaking out of it, drying and rotting with the remains of some organs. There was a ferocious stench to it. Lestrade was right. Identification could prove to be difficult.

Sherlock immediately went down to his knees to inspect what was left of the man. He was like a bloodhound on the scent, using his whole body to examine every angle he deemed necessary enough to look into. With a small magnifying glass he worked for approximately one minute until John had lost his sense of time by watching him. He had never seen him so utterly in his element.

"Doctor!" He called without looking up. "I could use a second opinion."

John ignored the smell of violent death and decay as he came closer. He knelt down opposite Sherlock, both of him bent over guts, legs and leftovers. It reminded him of the war. Of the wounds of all the victims, of explosives, of bites and so much more than bites, of wicked fangs in flesh. He had seen men die like this. Die in the most dishonourable way for a human life to end. That was how he knew that this right here was not the work of an animal. Nor that of a vampyre.

"Well?" Sherlock was watching him with keen eyes.

"He wasn't ripped in half. This is a clean cut. This was surgical."

"Very good." He gave a pleased smile.

"But you already knew that."

"I did," he said, getting back to his feet. "And now you do, too. Lestrade!"

The inspector approached them again with a questioning look on his face.

"We should like to make a little trip through the museum."

"The museum?" Lestrade asked. "We already looked in there."

"I thought so. That's why I did not mean to look for body parts. I'm looking for art."

"Art? Do you really think now is the time to-"

"Come along, John!"

John could only so much as shoot Lestrade an apologetic glance before he hurried to keep up with Sherlock Holmes. The man was a hurricane, always the whirling storm on the run, forcing anyone who came too close to fly away with him if one did not want to be helplessly plucked from the earth.

He was already talking to a little man, shorter than John, blonde and anxious. His eyes looked familiar to him, a pair of thin silver glasses making them look bigger and his head smaller. Despite the feeling of finding some familiarity in his face he could say with certainty that he had never seen this person before.

"Sorry, sir, I don't think I could possibly do that for you."

"Oh, really?" Sherlock didn't sound convinced. "Excuse me then for not introducing myself sooner. My name is Samuel Higgins, this is my friend and colleague Dr Watson. We are here with the police for the investigation of the murder of Mr Woodbridge. One of your colleagues, I suppose, Mr...?"

"Stripes," the man completed.

"Mr Stripes. For all I know you could have been the one to murder him, could you not?"

Apparently, that was all it took for the anxious man to hesitate. And oh, wasn't Sherlock Holmes a master of manipulation? After some stuttering and uttered insecurities, they were let past him.

"But please don't touch anything!"

John waited till they were far enough away to not be overheard before turning towards him.

"Samuel Higgins, eh?"

Sherlock tried to hide a half-smile. "Same initials," he said. He made a dramatic pause to take off his strange hat and store it away in his coat. "Different man."

John shook his head and chuckled.

They walked through the museum like they would walk on their way to the theatre – noble, appreciative and with a mind open for art. No one would assume, just from seeing them like this, that not even one hundred feet away there was a body decomposing outside.

He imagined that this was how it would feel like to live with Sherlock. Not only on the adventures or on the run, but actually being a part of his life. It would include moments like this. A visit to the museum, a walk through the park. Maybe music was something he enjoyed. He knew so little about the man and yet he couldn't wait to learn everything.

It was a fine place. The ceiling was high and decorated with paintings of angels and harps and flutes. The walls were made to look like ruby-coloured silk, the floor was tiled like a chessboard. The room they had first entered was exhibiting a set of Greek statues and lots of smaller paintings. Once Sherlock spoke again, his voice was low and respectfully quiet. He pointed towards a sculpture showing two figures.

One was taller, had a full beard and held a trident in his hand. He had his eyes on another man who looked the other way, had a helmet on and held a sword up in the air. One piece of cloth was somehow covering them both from hipbones to the thighs, and it looked just as dynamic as if a wind of past times had threatened to blow them away before they had turned into stone.

"Do you know them?"

John thought for a while. "One of them is some sort of a sea-god, right?"

Sherlock nodded and praised him with a smile.

"Poseidon," he explained. "He fell in love with a young nymph called Caenis. As a symbol of his affection, Poseidon promised to grant her any wish, so Caenis wished for a man's body. But the god gave her not only this, he also gave her impenetrable skin. This is how Caenis became Caeneus and turned into a great warrior. Poseidon probably still loves him."

Feeling his world turn around a little, all John could do for the moment was blink. Sherlock had just told him a story of the unconditional love one man felt for another. A million questions came up, and yet he asked something else.

"You have space up in there to care about mythology?" John pointed at his curly head. Sherlock was usually much more selective of the kind of information he chose to store.

"Some criminals like to tell a story with the crimes they commit. Sometimes mythology happens to play a part in that, would you believe it?"

John chuckled at this. At this point he would believe almost anything coming from this man's lips. They turned around the corner. The longer they were strolling through the with highly expensive paintings decorated halls, the more Sherlock's gaze and posture loosened up. Slowly but surely he was getting out of the mindset of the detective on the hunt and let cracks through the mask hiding a much more sensitive being. And perhaps John just enjoyed that a bit too much.

His eyes wouldn't move as quickly around the room, would finally stop to strip the walls naked in the analyst's thirst for answers, and instead that gaze of his would begin to linger. The more and more frequently it did so, linger, the more he would stop and stand still, sometimes so abruptly that John almost walked into him.

They ended up standing in front of a painting this time. It was dark and the colour red came creeping over this darkness. It looked as if the sky was burning in the distance. The focus of the work was on two white men. The one was clearly in pain, being kneed in the back and pulled backwards by the other. The man who fought him was bending over him and biting his neck with fury in his eyes. Behind them, arms crossed and a broad grin stretched upon its face could only be one creature. The devil. The caption of the painting read in golden letters: _Dante and Virgil_.

"Two damned souls," Sherlock commented. There was remorse in his tone.

"Where are they?"

Sherlock stared at the picture like it could answer the question itself.

"Hell."

They moved on from this, but for minutes after John asked himself if he should be worried. It was rare to ever see Sherlock this concerned. He had clearly seen something in that painting that he feared. But they quickly got distracted again as Sherlock explained some more of the artworks to him, and John tried not to be embarrassed by how little he knew about art. Instead he tried to listen. To learn. Not necessarily about art, but about the man who was walking him through it. About the way he moved, the way he retold and analysed the painter's intentions and covered up mistakes. The more passionate he was about something, the more beautiful he became.

Sadly (and listen to his sinful thoughts – how could the solution to a crime ever be a sad occasion?) the next turn they took already provided an end to their little trip through the museum. In a bright and otherwise empty room hung one single painting on a wall with simple golden embroideries and a ceiling a bit lower than in the rooms before. It was said to be the highlight of this month's exhibition; John remembered himself skimming through it in the papers recently. Up close and face to face with it he really couldn't see what would make it in any way special or significantly different from all the other pieces they had seen. Names, he supposed, might have been the most important factor in the process of this decision. As they were in so many other cases.

Sherlock held still and paused in front of it. He had taken the posture of art's true admirer or critic, with one arm slung around his body supporting the elbow of the other and one finger pressed to his scarlet lips as though to silence himself. John wished that he could see whatever he saw in this picture of a night sky. Instead he saw something else.

He got a glimpse of brilliance that naturally whirled in the air around him, and once Sherlock puffed his chest out and blinked, his eyes ran wild over that piece of art. When he let out the next breath, his hard stare turned to widened eyes and his lips opened ever so slightly like he was trying to hide an epiphany.

His head turned to John, and John was feeling somewhat caught in the act. Sherlock's blue eyes were intense, and he gulped down the feeling of being flustered by this. His voice even seemed to have dropped a few octaves at his next words.

"What do you see?"

John had to make sure this wasn't just an idiotic idea induced by a cocktail of hormones and attraction that made him unsure if it really was just the painting they were talking about here. He decided to answer accordingly.

"Well, I'm certainly not an expert," he started, hearing his own voice lowering.

Sherlock wasn't even trying to get him to look at the painting. _He knew_.

"It surely is the work of a genius. But then again, it's very easy to hide behind a big name, isn't it?”

For a moment Sherlock seemed so vulnerable in the face of his words. He had learned a lot about hiding during all his years.

“But to see it, one has to let it speak for itself. With all of its different shades and colours. It can be an easy thing to marvel. Or to dismiss if one isn't looking close enough.”

John was looking. His eyes had locked with Sherlock's pair. He was looking back, boring his eyes through him softly and with unintended curiosity that was glued to John's words. He really cared about what John thought of him, didn't he? In a way that was already the greatest praise.

"I will waste my time trying to count every star of this night sky. But isn't it funny that I can't help trying?"

They were standing so close that John's heart was pounding faster, the tension between them as stressed as the string of an instrument. His eyes dropped down to that full pair of lips and lingered there for a second too long.

"What do _you_ see?" John whispered.

Sherlock's rumble turned his whole world around. "I see..."

Now Sherlock's eyes were dropping, too, but dropping to John's neck and lower.

"I see the outline of a rectangle around your chest area."

John swallowed. He was deducing him.

"A dogtag. Military days. Your own? No, the reminder of your soldier identity doesn't provide enough emotional value, it would meet with cynicism rather than sentiment, wouldn't it? Why would you still have them on you if they weren't from someone you cared about? Your posture suggests it was intimate, and your jaw clenches like you were still uncomfortable to this day. So it was something you had to keep from most of your troop. Someone you wouldn't have been allowed to be seen with. Who was higher in rank. Or perhaps someone who wasn't... adequate?"

_He knows_ , John realised. He realised it with a calmness that was almost shocking. He was just waiting for him to say it. Of course, he could not know his name. That he could not read from his posture, his mimic. Not unless he saw the name engraved into the metal around his neck. Major James Sholto. But what did it matter now that he knew? John knew that he knew it was a man. That it was women he loved and men he fell for, fell for into deep dark pits because he made himself into a mess every single time. This time – this right here, Sherlock – was already doomed to mess him up again.

He did not realise how close they had come. It felt too natural to be questioned. Like a natural law that could not be stopped from pushing them together. Like magnets. Their faces were mere inches apart, their chests were almost touching. John's hidden dogtag, one source of his misery, a reminder never to love like this again, could have touched the place of Sherlock's missing heart. John was the first to tilt his head ever so slightly.

"Did you find anything?"

They instantly jumped away from each other and turned around to find Lestrade and his officers strolling into the room. John cleared his throat a little too loudly, not knowing how much they had seen. But to answer Lestrade's question in his own head: Oh yes. He felt like he had found everything.

It was a surprise therefore that Sherlock's next words had absolutely nothing to do with what he had said to him just a minute ago.

"The painting is a fake."

Lestrade and John both looked at him like he had told them the moon was made of cheese. It was not an improbable statement, but it came just as out of nowhere.

He nodded towards John. "The Doctor here has said the injury was surgical. If we assume that this, meaning consulted murder, is how Moriarty earns most of his money – and there is clear evidence that this is what he did before The Professor – then someone must have paid him to assassinate Woodbridge. So the questions is why would someone want to see a middle-aged, dull, slightly overweight guard in a museum cut in half? Why if he didn't know something he was not supposed to know? The lost Vermeer painting provides the missing link."

"But why does that make it a fake?"

"Very good, Lestrade. That's the question an idiot would ask at this point."

"Why cut him in half?" John asked instead. "Why would someone go to that trouble?

That sent a quick smile over Sherlock's lips. "Now that is a good question."

John could feel a warm flame flickering in his chest.

"First of all, Lestrade." He stepped closer to the painting and pointed at the stars below the frame. "Alexander Woodbridge's wife mentioned that he was obsessed with astronomy. I believe you were there as well, but I could have overestimated your powers of paying attention to the words of a woman."

He could practically hear Lestrade rolling his eyes next to him.

"You see this? The Van Buren Supernova. Ever heard of it? A natural phenomenon of an exploding star, appeared only a few decades ago."

John huffed out a laugh of astonishment. "So how could it be painted in the sixteen forties? Oh. That's brilliant."

Sherlock turned his head in surprise, whispering a shy, "You think so?"

John immediately swore to keep his reactions to praise in the back of his mind for further investigation.

Once again, Lestrade unknowingly ruined the moment. "Fine, you win. The painting is a fake. But why was Mr Woodbridge so brutally murdered?"

"As a warning. To threaten the ones who knew into silence, and to create more terror and fear. And that's how we know it was part of Moriarty's work. He needs the brains and the hearts of his victims, so everything below the chest area isn't useful to him."

In that moment the noise of a crow echoed through the high ceilings of the museum. With a flutter of black wings the bird landed on the arm of the stone sculpture of Athena.

_A crow? How did that get in here?_

John turned around to look at the crow, but in the corner of his eye he saw the little Mr Stripes. Although he wore an expression that made him look like a different person due to the evil smile on his chubby face, his features gave him away. He was holding his wrist close to his mouth and his lips were moving, just as if he was talking to someone. There was no one else to be seen. And suddenly, John heard his voice loud and clear.

"Yes, he figured it out. There is no doubt it is him."

_The man was spying on them!_

Without a second thought John was walking towards him with a look of determination and anger on his face. Of course, Mr Stripes noticed him quickly and the expression on his face, which was framed with a too big pair of glasses, changed into one of alert. He walked away from him, turning around the next corner, and when John heard his pace fasten, heard that he was in fact _actively fleeing_ from him, he began to run too. He was distantly aware that now the others were running after them as well, but he had only one thing in mind. He needed to catch Mr Stripes! They would turn him in for questioning. Maybe he could lead them to the headquarters of James Moriarty.

John had the advantage of fitness and his instincts. Mr Stripes had the advantage of knowing these rooms inside out. Turning around the next corner, he scanned the room. It was empty. Empty save for the statues of old legend, of the men and women in the paintings that looked back at him with critical eyes. Would he have hidden from him? He could have. But John would find him eventually. No, if he really wanted to get away where would he have gone? _He wouldn't have stayed_ , something whispered to him in the form of a cold epiphany. Somewhere in the distance he heard the crow's cry again. Walking through the white pillars to the yard of the museum complex, eyes sharp, ears on alert, the realisation came to him naturally. _He would have run outside_.

There could not have been much time for him to look for a hiding place, and the yard was too big to not see a man fleeing. Instinctively, his body carried him on stealthy feet, and soon he was cornering the dark green bushes between the buildings.

_Something was not right._

He stopped. Slowly sank to his knees. A rustle. John tilted his head in confusion, not yet allowing himself to smile at the triumph. _Why would he think he could escape him?_ His hand stretched out to reach through the leaves and thorns. Careful. He didn't want to hurt himself.

_"Meow!"_

With his heart threatening to jump out of his chest, he fell backwards into the dirt. The sudden attack had caught him off guard. He could only watch with wide eyes as the yellow cat hurried out of the bush and into the open in a sort of sulky manner, jumped over the next wall and disappeared. He let his head fall back and stayed on the dirty ground for a while, letting out a frustrated grunt. All this trouble just to be given a scare by a pissed off cat. Great.

Seconds later Sherlock and the others approached him. He heard Lestrade's voice first.

"There he is!"

Sherlock crouched down beside him. "John, are you alright?"

"He got away."

"Mr Stripes?" he asked, probably having it all figured out already.

John gave him a nod. "He is working for Moriarty."

"What? How do you know?"

"I simply do. He was spying on us. Back there. I saw that crow flying through the museum, so I turned my head and then I heard him. He was talking to someone. Watching you."

"And you think it was on Moriarty's behalf?"

 "Yes. Did you not hear him?"

 Sherlock frowned either in surprise at John's confidence in what he was saying or at himself for not having observed the same things.

"No, I haven't."

But now he looked at him with a long intensity in his cloudy eyes like he was seeing something in him that had not been there before, and John began to think his frown meant neither of the above.

"After you saw the crow, you said?"

John nodded again. It had just hit him how mad the story sounded. A crow, a Moriarty spy, a sudden chase through a gallery. But Sherlock and him had seen far crazier things. He seemed to believe him. That did not change the fact that John was losing his head a little, and then it all came out at once.

"Sherlock, they're planning something. Something big. Moriarty is going to organise a ball at The Prof."

Sherlock's eyes widened. "What? Why didn't you tell so before?"

"Well, maybe because you were dressed like a cab driver and kidnapped me to a murder case?!"

But he was not listening anymore. His eyes made wild but calculated movements within their sockets, never focusing on anything in particular. Every point he was jumping to was a thought and if he came to a conclusion, he did so entirely in that big brain of his. John had to form his own conclusion from the bits of brilliance that occasionally left Sherlock's mouth.

"Yes. But of course, yes. If this is what then this would be when..."

"Ehm, Sherlock-"

"Get up, Doctor, we are going to get Lestrade on this. He will initiate a meeting with the team as soon as possible."

Sherlock jumped up and rose to his full height again. Just as John thought he would just run off to Lestrade immediately, he felt a hand on his shoulder. Sherlock helped him to get off the ground and suddenly they were standing too close again.

"There's more," John whispered, his voice a little too rough on the edges. He was still upset because of Sherlock's attitude, because of his arrogance, his complex to always make himself appear mysterious and thus never telling him the whole truth. He was upset that despite all this he was still incredibly attracted to him, was still stuck in his orbit and enjoying it more than he would like to admit. "But I've still got questions."

Sherlock probably read him like a book and that was why he held his gaze. "I know."

"I am serious. This time you will sit in a hansom with me instead of driving it, you hear me? There are a few things you haven't told me yet."

Before he answered him, he looked around, turned his head to Lestrade and his officers, to the birds in the sky, to the greying hairs on John's head. Only then he could lock eyes with him again.

_"I know_. _"_


	11. The Crow and the Wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time to answer some questions that are long overdue. Moriarty, the Woman, Sherlock Holmes ... What do they all have in common? What made them like this?

"You have questions."

They were alone in the warm hansom cab. London was rushing by behind the window glass.

"Yes." John paused. Finally, he was alone with Sherlock. Ironic it was now that he couldn't think of a single thing to ask. There were just so many thoughts at once.

The space in the car was limited. Their knees bumped as they were sitting across from each other. John wondered if maybe the cab was not even that warm, wondered if their bodies were just giving off all the heat instead.

He looked at him for a while. The crossed legs, the folded hands in his lap. The detective appeared to be so at ease, ready and patient to listen to whatever John had to say. His eyes shone grey, bright against the dark red wallpaper behind him. Sherlock's gaze on him was expectant but never demanding.

John took a deep breath.

"Irene Adler came back."

"Oh, did she?"

"You don't sound surprised."

Sherlock opened the first two buttons of his coat and took out a long wooden object that John identified as a pipe. He placed it between his lips (that John's eyes couldn't help but be drawn to in that moment) before he then took out a box of matches. John wondered if he should warn him about fire in a small room, but then he had already lit his pipe. The smell of burnt tobacco filled the air, and the ash glowed in an orange pond of its own embers. Soon the smoke was all around him. He coughed.

"She always comes back one way or another," Sherlock said between pulls. "Which way was it this time?"

John sighed, then took a deep breath as he thought back. Instinctively, his fingers found the injured skin beneath his collar. "The witch."

"Ah. So you've met the version of her that remembers what happened."

"What? What do you mean? What version?"

Sherlock let out the long sigh that John had inhaled before. He looked out of the window for a moment. "You said there were things I haven't told you. I suppose this is one of them."

John's gaze hardened. In scepticism, in concern. "Well, we've still got some time left. Tell me now."

He took another long drag on his pipe and his fingers curled around its round belly. His movements looked almost sensual, almost too intimate to be looked at. He closed his eyes for mere seconds as if he was planning to lose himself in the nicotine, but he never seemed quite satisfied. Another of his habits that he couldn't unlearn. It made him human. Where did the smothered tobacco go if it couldn't fly into organic lungs? After he blew out the next cloud of silver smoke, he held it out to John in question.

"Er, no. I don't smoke."

"Oh, really?" Sherlock quirked a brow. "I would've sworn that you did."

John felt heat raising to his cheeks. He couldn't blush now. It really was quite inappropriate.

"The Woman," he said then, proclaiming that title like the headline of a newspaper's front page. He paused again to let out a sigh. Bringing the conversation back on the track of serious topics.

"If you operate in this world with a mind aware of magic, people and your surroundings will begin to adjust around you. Once you've been in this orbit, you just keep on revolving. Moriarty, the Woman, me..."

John huffed a laugh. "You are magical?"

"I am." Sherlock's response was as dramatic and mysterious as the man himself.

And he was. Even if you entirely ignored the scientifically inexplicable, he really was magical.

"It has already begun to affect you. In order to understand her, you will have to understand this. What you have done today, Doctor, was astonishing."

He had expected him to tell him anything. Anything other than this. What came out as a reaction was an unbelieving laugh. "Why? I lost him. He got away."

The detective shook his head. "It doesn't matter. You ... Let me try to explain it like this. We are all not that far from each other. The wheel keeps on turning. Nothing is ever new. We use and we are being used, but we cannot be more or less than nature gives to us. Is that understandable?"

"I suppose."

"That is, very roughly put, what Irene Adler does. Why there are _versions_ of her, why she is able to come back. She has the skin of a snake. This is what she is."

"A snake?” John wondered out loud. “Isn't she rather..." He thought about her hundred pairs of eyes, about her body sacking to the floor and releasing one giant swarm of animals that were definitely not snakes. "...you know, a spider?"

But Sherlock shook his head. "No. _He_ is. In the centre of the web. A criminal web with a thousand threads. He moves one leg and on the other end the trap is set." Never had he seen Sherlock speak more sincerely, his face clouded with an odd fog of concern and interest. "Spiders, John, lay many eggs."

Now it dawned on him. It dawned on him the second his own name slipped through Sherlock's lips. "He took control over her. But how is this even possible?"

"When he told you he were a magician, he did tell the truth. You see," the hand that was not holding the pipe he laid down onto an invisible object between them. This object was his tool, the centre from which he controlled the masses in his mind. Right now he formed it, willing to give John just a glimpse of it all. "The world is a complex system full of energy. You can train yourself to see this energy and to use it. You may call it magic or spirits, whatever you like."

"Is that something you worked on? Before?"

"Once I have ceased to neglect the concept of it all, I did try to understand it. I regret denying it for such a long time. Such _wasted_ time."

"Why did you deny it?"

"Possibly because I-" he caught himself there, looking out of the window and clearing his throat. His next words came out in a murmur. "I was afraid. When everything you thought you knew before can be questioned all of a sudden the world can feel... dangerous. Even more so than it used to."

John nodded. Of course he understood. "One learns to get used to it someday."

Sherlock's eyes flickered back at him. He looked thoughtful, the cold mask cracking right here in front of him. "I envy you."

"You envy me?" John laughed. He expected this to end in a comment about him being simple and Sherlock being complex. But it didn't.

"Sometimes you don't make any sense at all, Doctor. You do all this, see all this and you absorb it all and take it in as if it were the easiest thing in the world to you. Yes, what is it about you?"

"Me?"

Sherlock didn't elaborate on this directly. "What you saw today ... You said you saw a crow in the museum."

"Yes."

A few moments of loaded silence passed by but the world stood still.

"I made the mistake of underestimating you. Again. Perhaps you really are... extraordinary."

Extraordinary? The word spun around in John's head, flew into corners that tried to shape and form it, but it came out the same. Unwritten and unchanged. Sherlock thought he was _extraordinary_.

"Now back to the spider. Your turn."

"What?"

The topic changed as quickly as Sherlock's temper. The mask was back and carefully placed on the handsome features of his face, straightening him.

"The ball you've mentioned. Do keep up."

"Yes, the ball I've mentioned. Yes." Keeping up wasn't as easy as he made it sound.

But then the cab stopped abruptly before he was given more time to think, and shoving John closer to the edge of his seat from the impact.

"We're here. We must postpone your big début."

He turned to leave the cab and open the door. John held him by the sleeve. "Sherlock, wait! I still don't think I understand... everything you just told me-"

Sherlock put his hand over John's own. "You will. When the time comes."

Sometimes he wished the detective would stop expressing himself so damned cryptically. They had arrived at Scotland Yard, quickly adjusting their pace to the other one's steps like a unit. Lestrade was already waiting for them at the reception.

"Ah, there you are. Most of the team aren't there yet. But you can still go through, if you like."

They did as the inspector said. Walking down that same hall, standing in the same lift. Alone this time. The air was charged with something that was hard to define. John did not feel as tense today, and even the darkness had lost its gloominess. This was now known territory to him, it was something he had taken in once and now it belonged to him. Instead what he felt when they were walking through the stone hall was excitement. He wanted to know so much more that Sherlock knew. Maybe now they would have a bit more time for him to ask. Sherlock had to have a reason to become what he became. _What made him like this?_

Sherlock opened the door to the lit room. Just as John put his hand to his shoulder, he felt the other man's body tense.

"Hello, Sherlock."

They weren't alone.

Janine Hawkins was smiling at them from across the room. Right next to Mrs Hudson. But this time Sherlock did not seem happy to see either of them.

"What are you doing here?"

Janine got up with an air of elegance, of a dancer, swirling around her. "Greg said you called for us. Did you not?"

"He didn't tell me you were already here."

"Sorry, did you two want some time alone?"

She was still smiling. Sherlock stayed quiet.

John used the time in which he was once again invisible to take a closer look at Mrs Hudson. She did not appear to be quite herself. He walked over to her and sat down.

"Mrs Hudson, are you alright?"

Once she turned her head in his direction, she smiled weakly. "Oh yes, dear. Just a little overworked, that is all."

The doctor in him was barely convinced. "Are you certain-"

But she interrupted him.

"And what have you done all day? You were gone so quickly, it seemed to be very important."

"Ah, yes," Janine finally acknowledged his presence. I haven't seen you much after Jim's little humiliation."

"Humiliation?" Sherlock asked.

John bit the insides of his mouth and looked from one to the other. This was a terrible moment, and he wanted out of it. Suddenly the air felt too thin to breathe and the awareness of him being caught underground weighted him down like the whole building was about to collapse at any given moment.

Janine looked down at him with pity in her pretty brown eyes. "I'm joking!"

Scepticism ran over Sherlock's face as he looked from the one to the other. Of course, he saw right through both of them. It was what he did. But in this case John hoped it was to his own advantage.

"Murder investigation at the museum," he explained then, with all of the excitement lacking that such a phrase from his mouth could have deserved.

"Oh, dreadful business, that," she replied, sounding concerned. "I've always considered museums to be places of peace. Pictures can tell us so much about ourselves, do they not?"

Before this conversation could go any further, the door flew open. John was honestly relieved to see that Lestrade was here now. And he had not come alone.

"So, I can gladly announce that almost everyone could make it."

Steps were heard behind him, and one voice rose as the loudest and the most irritated from the echoing stone walls. Yes, it was Anderson's.

"What is it he wants this time? I've been in the middle of a bloody autopsy and now I'm just expected to drop everything on command whenever that freak-"

His mouth clasped shut as soon as he had crossed the door frame and he saw the room was inhabited already. Including _that freak_. John's fist clenched instinctively when he heard people talk about Sherlock like this. He could not help it. But Sherlock, despite all the odds, smiled back at him. A fake one, by all means, but still a smile.

"Hello, Anderson. Does your wife know you work extra hours just to avoid her?"

He went a bit pale there, turning his head to Sally Donovan in some sort of search for moral support. Instead she only frowned back at him and shrugged, the look on her face saying, _'Well, you brought this onto yourself.'_

"In my defence," he was helplessly saying back to the room. "You were all thinking it, were you not? This is what, the third time this happens and it never … I mean. I'm not saying … But how can you still-" He was looking at Lestrade directly now, "-jump whenever he tells you to without even knowing what's going on?"

Lestrade narrowed his eyes. "Because he is the best we have! And if you can't agree to that, if you can't _see_ that..." Suddenly he took a deep breath and grew very calm. He was still holding the door open like he had done to let them in. "Here's the door."

Protest was written all over Anderson's wide-eyed face. "Oh, come on!"

But Lestrade had enough. "This is a serious crisis! People have died, some of them lying on your table, too, I believe."

Anderson looked once again over his shoulder to Donovan, but she was avoiding his gaze. Instead of her, Molly was the one to face him now. She stepped up to him, displaying all the anger that John had tried so hard to suppress. "You may leave any time you like."

The eyes of everyone in the room were boring into him, and the man was exposed. He swallowed, once, his mouth twitching downwards. Until he finally threw his hands up and gave in.

"Fine! I … apologise." It must have physically hurt Anderson to get this out. He began to make little and careful steps through the room, past Molly and Greg Lestrade. "I'm just going to sit over there now."

Shoving the chair back that John had previously sat on, he tried to take up a smaller space by sitting back. But even Mrs Hudson next to him didn't look amused.

"Go on then, Holmes. I'm all ears."

"Oh good," Sherlock said, turning away from him. "I was really worried." As he rolled his eyes behind Anderson's back, John turned his head away to hide a grin.

He looked around. "Where is Wiggins?"

Lestrade did not look innocent enough to pull off a shrug. _He didn't call him, did he?_ He had never quite liked Wiggins.

"I'm 'ere, ser."

Bill Wiggins retreated from the shadows from behind a huge bookshelf where he had leant against a wall. _How had no one seen him?_

Even Sherlock looked a bit surprised at first, but he caught himself quickly. "Ah, splendid."

"Wait, what?! How-" Lestrade's eyes widened.

"No worries, Inspector. 'Tis alright you 'aven't invited me."

"But-"

Sherlock interrupted Lestrade to get back on the track of the problem.

"Anyway. I will not be the one to lend your ear to, Anderson," he continued. "John, your moment has arisen."

John (who had just suppressed another grin that came from the image of lending one's ear to someone else – it was much less disturbing than in reality) felt his own heart stagger in his chest. Did Sherlock know he did this out loud? Did he want to do this out loud? Take off all of the pretence and call him...

" _Doctor Watson!_ " Sherlock exclaimed once he realised what he had said. He cleared his throat, now also taking a seat. "The stage is yours..."

Now it was on him to bear the weight of everyone else's gazes. He looked to Mrs Hudson and to Janine. They were the only people in the room who had witnessed the speech with him. And he had not even properly listened. They knew when he would fail to retell the story, when he would overreact in his proposal of taking action. He remembered a time when he had only wanted to be a little bit impressive to a certain someone. Look at him now.

He was most familiar with these kinds of meetings. He used to hold them all the time in the small space between battlefield and short cold nights. Remembering this and where he came from as a soldier, as a captain, helped make his nervousness fade away, and he spoke his next words with confidence.

"Moriarty is going to host a ball at The Professor. Singing, dancing. Getting as many people in there as he can. He wants to be exclusive, for the rich, the beautiful." He looked up at Sherlock. He was clinging to his words with keen interest, no doubt finding a hundred hidden meanings that he himself did not see.

"But he needs them all to come, to watch... something. If he searched for an opportunity to reveal this something, this has to be it. I'm sure of it!"

Mrs Hudson's face painted worry over her features, Janine raised her brows and they looked at each other. John grew insecure.

"Did I... forget anything?"

"A tiny detail," Janine said. "It's a mask ball."

"A mask ball?" John asked.

"James loves these. The mysterious, the disguises. He finds it... _sexy_."

Sherlock rose up from his seat excited and elegantly. "Superb! Masks, disguises, mystery – it's just what we need."

"But wait, wait," Anderson interfered. "You don't think we are a little quick to make assumptions here? What- what is it you always say? Before you have all the facts, you don't... don't make assumptions, right? It could just be that he wants to celebrate his birthday, for all we know!"

Molly frowned with her arms crossed. "His birthday?"

"I think 'tis funny," said Wiggins.

"Out." Sherlock's tone was like a constant, his irritation an obvious fact.

Anderson wanted to open his mouth, but Donovan spoke first.

"You really should leave."

He shot her a look of shock, of disappointment, but it only met solemn brown eyes.

"You can't be serious-"

"I believe Greg already showed you the door," Molly said, smiling, and Lestrade gladly held it open for him again.

With hesitation Anderson slowly got up to take a leave. On his way out, he nearly bumped into a lanky figure, and Tom immediately apologised awkwardly, as he was.

"Oh, sorry I'm late, I didn't-"

"No, it's fine. I..." He threw a last glance back at Donovan. "I was just going to leave."

John looked after him and past the confused Tom in what felt like stern victory. He did not smile. His eyes were painted in cold blue. They were all on his side. He, an outsider, an unknown force, had won and the doubt inserting voice nagging on the back of his head had lost.

He turned to see Sherlock looking at him with a little smile. They locked eyes instantly. It was like he could see through him for a moment, see his name on his lips even though he had not uttered a word. His mouth opened.

"What do you propose now, Doctor?"

"Sorry?"

Sherlock came over to him, taking his place in the middle of the room. He put a hand to his shoulder to lean in and say, "I'm going to take over from here."

He watched Sherlock take the lead again, so at ease with all the eyes on him.

"Lestrade, I want the whole building under surveillance. Get as many men and women in and around there as you can."

"When?" Lestrade asked.

Sherlock looked at John.

"Ehm, two days from now," John said.

"Two days?!"

Sherlock tilted his head. "You heard the man."

"But Holmes, that's- that's almost impossible to plan in two days, let alone explain to the Chief!"

"I'm counting on your Almost Impossibles then." Sherlock put a hand to John's shoulder again. He felt a strangely warm sensation through his clothes, a glowing that led to his very core. “We will meet again in two days in the morning, same place, and fill in the details. Thank you all for your attendance, that would be it.”

"Are you really going to leave just like this?"

"Doctor Watson and I have solved you a case today, Lestrade. Don't you think that is quite enough to be going on with for now?"

Lestrade bit his tongue and let his shoulders sack. He had no choice but to do as Sherlock told him. As always. Sometimes it could be so tiring to know he was supposed to be the one in charge, but that in so many cases his hands were tied and his mind dependent on the brain of another.

As Sherlock took John along to leave through the back door, Wiggins was the only one to wish them goodbye.

"See ya, Mr 'olmes!"

"Where are we going?" John asked perplexed.

"Baker Street. I want to show you something."

 

***

 

Sherlock closed the door behind them. The light of the warm, undergoing sun swept through the long curtains without demand, just a gentle guest. John felt a warmth spreading from his chest from standing in these rooms again, smelling of burnt wood and Sherlock Holmes. He was greeted by the same charming chaos he had felt so comfortable around, because it was lively, was a tell-tale of its owner's habits.

Sherlock slid his coat over his shoulders and let it fall to the floor and turn into a sad looking pile of clothing. He walked past him and sunk into his chair, his hands and fingers aligned against his lips as if to pray, and closed his eyes. John came closer on silent feet and stood by the other chair for a little while. Watching him like this, he could have been nothing more than a cyborg, John thought. Smooth, pale face, a posture too elegant to not be rehearsed, a peace to those closed eyes that could not be worn by any other man, for they had worries and engravings of a life that was impossible not to show. He could hardly have been real.

"So what did you want to show me?" he asked, not even knowing that he smiled.

"Hmh?" Sherlock raised one brow in question, eyes still closed.

There was a moment of stillness before one of them moved.

"Ah, yes." He untangled his crossed legs, put his hands to the armrests and jumped up within a second. He smiled down at him. "Would you care for a cup of tea?"

They sat over two cups of tea and three books spread on the kitchen table. Sherlock made surprisingly good tea, but in retrospect that was hardly so surprising. He had not touched his own, as he could not actually drink it. He must have forgotten, as he did now and again. He explained to him the meaning of the energy that surrounded them, in the trees and plants and animals, and John was _fascinated_.

"And so," he continued with a passion and commitment in his words that he had rarely heard from anyone before, "that quickly raised one essential question: Is it possible to transfer this energy to a place that hasn't functioned so before? To an object, a lifeless thing, like you would lead electricity through conductivity?"

"Well, an object could be lit or even moved, surely. But it would never be alive, would it?"

Sherlock was leaning over the table, an intensity in his eyes that John had not yet gotten used to, maybe never would. "Look at me."

"I am," he whispered back.

"What is it that keeps me alive in this?" Sherlock pointed at himself, and John's eyes were instantly drawn to his lips, just where his finger was pointing, then quickly up to lock eyes again.

"Your brain," John answered, but it was half a question.

Sherlock shook his head. "No, Doctor. And you are a doctor, you should know this. My brain alone won't keep me alive. It merely ensures the mechanisms of my nervous system. It is a tool, a storage room, but it is not all I am made of."

"Your heart. But-" he stopped himself. But his heart was missing.

"They say the brain and the heart are opposites, but they work together. What they need in a body, like the fuel of an engine, is my soul. And that only transfers with the help of..."

"Black magic." He breathed the words in awe.

"Exactly."

John looked at one of the books. The page in front of him showed a human body, as he knew it, but instead of the bones or the muscles, there was the endless flow of energy, visualised through every cell and every limb.

"The soul is in itself nothing more than a densely compressed bundle of energy. You see now why, if Moriarty has found a way to transfer a soul into a lifeless body, he will have no trouble to control one from its core."

"To what point?"

Sherlock seemed confused. "What do you mean?"

"Well, you're talking about Irene Adler now. A part of his own abilities he gives to her to take control over her. But you don't seem to be affected by this. You are still yourself."

"Because I ran away. Because you... helped me to slip through his fangs." Wherever Sherlock was looking now, it was not at John. At the scratches in the table's surface or down at his own chest, perhaps, but not at John. When he looked up again, he opened his mouth just to close it again. That was rare.

"Have I ever... thanked you... for doing this? Risking your life to save mine?"

John chuckled silently, looking at his hands. Everything this pair of hands had done for this man already. He could finally feel them again. The hands of a fighter, the hands that were his own. And once more he asked himself how it must feel to be trapped in a body that looked like you but did not belong and never would be you. John needed to free him. One more time.

"There's really no need." The corners of his mouth twitched to form a smile.

Sherlock looked at him for a long time. Not through him, just at him. Tried to see him in a light that was easier and softer for him to bear. Sherlock Holmes did not do easy. But oh, he wanted to. For once, he did not want to observe, he wanted to _see_. It was so hard, yes, so very hard to see without a heart.

The legs of his chair scratched over the floorboards as he got up in a quick motion. He disappeared into his bedroom, and John watched him until he could not anymore, confusion stretched across his face. Had he said something wrong? God knew for someone so inhuman, Sherlock did have a hell of a temper. But he came back with what appeared to be multiple sheets of paper in his hand. He spread them across the table, and John saw that they were... sketches. But not art, of course not art. More like the drawings one would find in the drawer of an architect, hard facts, lines and logic in the form of a pencil's work.

"So you _have_ worked on this before," John said, taking one of the sketches between careful fingers. He knew he was privileged to see this. He knew these works had to be close to Sherlock's heart (again, wherever that may be).

"One of my theories. The transfer of the energy of an organic matter into a lifeless one." He stood with his hands on his hips. There was no trace of pride in his voice this time. "Needless to say, it didn't work."

"But he made it work." John did not have to notice the little pout of Sherlock's lip to realise what he had said.

Was Sherlock really sulking over this? He would not look at him.

"You aren't getting competitive over this, are you? Look, the only reason Moriarty made this work, apparently, is because his methods are ferocious and unethical. This is not the mind of a scientist but that of a maniac."

"I hear these two often go hand in hand," he murmured, but a little smirk flashed over his lips.

John laughed. He hopped off his own chair and walked around the table to face him.

"Yes, you madman!"

Placing his hands on both of Sherlock's arms, the detective finally found his eyes again. And oh, how could he have forgotten the beauty that were Sherlock's eyes in the span of mere minutes of not seeing them?

"But you are so, so much better than him. You hear me?"

Sherlock blinked. Once, twice. His voice nothing more than an untamed rumble.

"I hear you."

They stood like this for far too long and not long enough to grasp what they were doing, but the curtains were halfway drawn. Halfway, like the air between them was only halfway charged with the tension of physics, of magnetism, while the other half was pure insecurity. The reason why he felt that Sherlock would understand what was happening between them was because it followed a pattern of logic. It was science, two poles that attracted each other equally, despite all their differences. They were not from the same worlds, he and him, but did they have to be? Somehow, destiny had still placed them to be here today, so close to being in each other's arms. The sun was setting. The room went dark. Sherlock's eyes never did.

He was leaning further down to rest his forehead against John's. He was not warm and he was not cold. Yes, what was he?

"You really do think that about me?" he asked into the silence.

"Oh, yes. I do."

"Why? You hardly even know me."

John looked into his light blue, his eyes so full of the sky after a storm. He thought he knew enough to close the distance that was left between them. His heart threatened to fall out of his chest just for considering this. He was nervous, was feeling light-headed, out of his mind, but his fingers never trembled. Knees weak, he knew what this man did to him. He really thought he knew enough...

"I-"

" _Hoo-hoo!_ "

A knock on the door. John's heart jumped as he turned his head in Mrs Hudson's direction as she entered. When he turned again, Sherlock was gone. Somehow he was sitting in his chair again, the same position he had admired earlier. Only that now it left him perplexed.

Mrs Hudson brought with her a tray full of biscuits. _Ah, of course_ , John thought. _She has no idea he doesn't eat_. But from what he knew already, it could be that she would not even notice a difference.

She looked surprised to see him. "Oh, Dr Watson. I didn't know you were still here. Are you staying the night?"

John's eyes fell from her to Sherlock, a question tilting his head. _Was he?_

Sherlock made a waving gesture of his hand. "Not like I'd make use of my bedroom anyway."

"Apparently I am."

"Listen, young man," she said in the warning tone of a concerned mother, placing the tray on top of the piling books on the kitchen table. John took a look outside. How was it that this day had passed by so quickly?

"Only just back from whatever dark hole you jumped into again, and already back to mistreating yourself. Have you eaten anything today?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes with a sigh and closed them.

" _Sherlock_ , you have a doctor here now. Dr Watson, go tell him what he is doing to his health if he refuses to eat or sleep or let others care for him."

With a bemused smile John watched as the crease of irritation between Sherlock's brows deepened. Under different circumstances – if he were human, for example – he would be on his landlady's side completely, without question. He was sure the man in the long gowns and the pretty eyes was the most insufferable of tenants and roommates. Rarely found sleeping, rambling at all hours, keeping vampyre blood and God knew what else in the kitchen, going on and on about murder and mayhem. All in all, he sounded like … Yes, what did it sound like?

"Do you think this is funny, Dr Watson?"

She looked upset, and he felt guilty for a second, but still could not stop smiling. When he shot a glance at Sherlock he saw that he was smiling, too, and so John began to chuckle. Sherlock's deep voice reached his ears with quiet laughter, and John joined in. They laughed, absurdly, for no reason at all, until Mrs Hudson stomped away as if she was personally offended.

"And here I thought he could get some sense into him," she was heard, murmuring to herself before she left the room.

The laughter went on for a little while, and by the time it died off, John had settled down into the chair opposite Sherlock.

"I wonder what had her so upset."

They grinned at each other.

"She was forced to sit in a room with Anderson today. That could've dampened her mood a bit."

"Hah. But that's something we've all endured today."

Sherlock snorted. "True. But she stayed longer than we have." He looked at his own hands, before warmly meeting John's eyes again. "And I've got you."

That warmth shot John right through the chest. "Do you?"

"You are something of an... anti-Anderson to me."

"Oh really? What a compliment!" John replied sarcastically. Secretly, he meant it.

They sat together like this for a few hours more. He always forgot the time in Sherlock's company, but he never forgot himself. It worked pure wonders on him. If he had looked back for a moment, he would see that he didn't know that man he had been a week ago. A total stranger, a dead man, resurrected with the help of something, someone who did not even have a heart anymore, was living on cogs and metal. This was what happened to him. And what did that sound like?

It sounded like everything John Watson had dreamed of.


	12. The Bewitched, The Bewildered

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moriarty has planned a big event at The Professor. It is of the highest importance, therefore, that Sherlock, John and trustworthy officers of the police attend this ball in an undercover mission and keep an eye on him. Who could even imagine what the evil mastermind has in mind for this very special evening?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoiler Altert: There will be dancing. I was very excited.

"Do give him some credit, Sherlock."

It was a little colder today, but Sherlock wore his long coat, and it wasn't like he would freeze anyway. The streets were crowded, more so than on most days, and on this one in particular. Sherlock and John were standing on the other side of the street, watching the rich and the beautiful enter the big house in their posh evening attire. Long dresses and masked faces were all around them. People were streaming in to become this cluster in front of the entrance doors of The Professor. John had already spotted Lestrade among the crowd, but he was sure Sherlock was able to recognise a variety of other officers in their disguises.

The detective sighed next to him.

"Yes, Doctor."

He opened his coat. Its insides had pockets large enough to store one mask for each of them. John had no idea what Sherlock had picked out for them to wear on their faces. He looked ahead, holding one of the masks out for him. John took it out of his long fingers and looked at it. He turned it around in his hands, cautiously as if it could break under the slightest pressure like thin glass.

The material appeared to be expensive, the shape of it designed to be a perfect fit. It was a white mask that would cover half of the face, just from the eyes down to the nose. It shimmered in the last rays of sunlight that touched it, decorated with tiny sparks of glitter that made it rough as sandpaper. The nose was long and sharp, like a crow's beak. John was wondering if he had picked this for him because it reminded of the plague doctors from the seventeenth century. But when he looked at it, he only saw Sherlock.

Sherlock himself was about to put on a mask that looked like a wolf's face.

"Oh no," John protested. "This one."

He gave Sherlock the white bird mask, and he looked back at him in confusion.

"Why? You're the crow, John. It makes the most sense!"

John shook his head. "Well, now I'm the wolf." He took the other mask from Sherlock and put it on. It smelled a bit like the forest and distinctly like a certain detective's coat. "Now wear the damn mask."

He did wear the damn mask. He became the crow and John became the wolf. Then they made their way to the entrance door on the other side. The strange pond of people dissolved into the stream of a river following a flow. Guests walked through the hallway past the reception with time on their hands, engaging in this social event with the caution they had neglected in the outside world. This was about being seen while being hidden. _Socialising_.

They both handed their coats to someone who took coats, and a moment later they were in. John forgot where he was for a second. It looked like a different building entirely, decorated and filled with high society dressed expensively and extravagantly. The chairs and tables had been put aside to make room for dancing and above them there was a giant chandelier with strings of jewellery hanging down, slowly revolving around itself and scattering raindrops of light over the room through reflection. John turned to look over to Sherlock. Then the room stood still.

He was absolutely dashing tonight. He wore black suit trousers, tightly and tailored and matching with his black jacket, which he wore over a dark green silken waistcoat and a white neckcloth around his neck. Just _dashing_. And while his eyes lingered on places below Sherlock's face, he did not notice that he was seizing him up as well.

John himself wore what Sherlock had gotten him; a simple black and white combination of black jacket and trousers, black double buttoned waistcoat, a white shirt and bow tie. He had been surprised at how nicely the pieces fitted him. But then again, he should not be surprised that he would be able to read his measurements just by looking at him. ( _So he had looked at him..._ )

Clearing his throat, he tore his gaze away from the other man again and looked around the room. _This is not the time!_ The sounds were familiar and yet different. Laughter, the buzz of dozens of voices speaking at the same time, resembling the gentle hum of a bee swarm. Somewhere someone dropped a glass of champagne and it shattered on the tiles.

"Did you spot him yet?"

Sherlock was staring at something, or someone, for a long time without uttering a word. The noises and movements around them made the pair of them odd-looking, made them into obstacles. In the blink of an eye, his head snapped back into reality and in John's direction. He opened his mouth as he found Sherlock's hand on his back, but Sherlock spoke first.

"Come, Doctor. We have to keep moving if we intend to blend in."

John eyed him once more from head to toe. They stayed in the far side of the room as they began to walk around.

"If your intention was to blend in," he said, "wouldn't it have been smart to wear something more discreet?"

"The best methods of hiding work with indiscreetness."

"Isn't that a contradiction?"

"Life is as full of contradictions as it is of similarities. And besides," Sherlock raised a brow and one corner of his mouth. "One doesn't have to be stupid and draw attention by standing around. But it should certainly be allowed to be fashionable."

John rolled his eyes and laughed. _Arrogant bastard_.

They walked around the room a little longer, slowly making their way farther to the middle. Every once in a while a woman or a man would try to talk to one of them, compliment Sherlock's wardrobe or John's wit, ask them who they were here with. The answer was always, _I'm with him_ , and Sherlock added the _Obviously_ that John thought. It was strange because he wished that people would understand, but they did not. He really thought he was behaving obviously possessive or in awe or, well, _happy_ around him. But they weren't really here _together_ , and although he was with him, he was not as _with him_ as John wished they would be or could be. There were moments where he hated that he was how he was. Everyone around them was beautiful, every woman stunning in their long dresses, their soft curls, their sweet laughter. But Sherlock … To him he was always better. Always more.

Someone came by with a tray full of champagne, and John took a glass. Who knew how long this evening would be?

Sherlock put his mouth close to his ear. "Look over there."

He was following his gaze over to a man with slicked back hair, a golden mask and a cane. Moriarty. If it was meant to be a disguise, it wasn't a really good one. But he would have no reason at all to hide. Everyone else was already hiding. He was just out here, hunting.

"Don't stare," Sherlock said.

"You're staring!"

"We can't both stare, Doctor."

John stared at Sherlock instead. "What now?"

"Nothing. We knew he would be here. He will probably soon step into the centre of everyone's attention all by himself. Then we can at least keep our eyes on him."

"Do you think he saw you?"

"Only if he's looking for me."

Sherlock was still staring at him. Moriarty was currently engaged in a cheerful conversation with a woman in a white dress. A few more minutes and he would have pierced daggers through him with his eyes only.

"You don't think he is?"

Sherlock turned. For what seemed like the first time this evening John saw his blue eyes on him, lighter through the two holes in the white mask. "I think he's looking for a lonely man. But that is not what I am."

John took a long sip on his champagne to ignore this. Because if he didn't, he would be useless the whole night. Distantly he noticed how someone entered the stage, accompanied by another person, and then two and three and four people sat down on the wooden stools that had been placed there. They took in the space between the chairs and their instruments. There were violinists and contrabassists, and soon soft tunes filled the whole room. Mrs Hudson began playing on the piano, someone John recalled to have seen before played the trumpet.

People adjusted quickly when there was music in the room. Soon the whole room began to move as pairs found and held each other to dance. Suddenly, John and Sherlock were once again standing in the way, still and awkwardly in the middle of spinning long dresses and laughter. Sherlock looked as if he wanted to say something, but behind him John heard something else.

"John?"

He turned around to find a blonde woman in a white dress, a red veil and a cat mask. It was the person he had seen Moriarty talking to just minutes ago. He looked past her to see if he was still there. The crowd was moving too fast. He couldn't see him.

The woman shove back the veil and now he could see into her eyes. It was Mary. Not that he had not already known that.

"I'm so glad to see you!" She closed the distance between them to open her arms and hug him. It was a semi-personal hug, a pat on the back. "Could I persuade you into a dance with me?"

"You really couldn't." A polite rejection.

"Oh, John, come on!" She linked her left arm with his right and began to walk away with him. Right in the middle of her abduction she seemed to remember how to be polite. Turning around, she gave Sherlock a broad and lovely smile. "I'm borrowing him for a few minutes, alright?"

John himself did not appear to have any say in this. She led him farther into the corner of the room where the music was not so loud and the light didn't spy on them as much.

Sherlock seemed lost for a minute. He knew he shouldn't just be standing here, he knew he stood out. That wasn't the plan at all. Still, he kept on looking after John and Mary, but the crowd began to slowly swallow them more and more, he saw a laugh from John, John taking another sip, Mary smiling, smiling, always. Then they were gone. He hadn't known John was close to any of his colleagues. But it made sense, didn't it? He spent a fair amount of time within these walls. One tends to get closer when more time is spent in each other's company. Was John the type to make friends easily? He still hadn't moved. Exposed.

_Moriarty is looking for a lonely man._

He took a step forward to catch himself as someone ran against him from behind.

"Oh, I'm so sorry-" The lady said, and Sherlock turned around.

"Ohh," she said again, longer this time. It was Molly. In a dusky pink coloured dress and a fox mask. Her hair, quite cleverly, was pinned-up to look like fox ears.

"I almost didn't-" she began anew, looking him up and down. From the top of his perfect curls, all the way over the green waistcoat and the long tailcoat down to expensive, shiny boots.

"Dance with me."

Molly looked as if she had from one moment to the next forgotten how to speak English, as if she didn't understand a word. She blushed slightly, a light shade of pink visible just below her cheeks where her mask ended and her face began. "Sherlock..."

"Quickly now. They are starting to look at us."

In three quick and calculated movements he held her by the waist, put her hand into his and pulled her closer. She let out a surprised gasp, hesitant to place her hand on his shoulder or to even look at him directly.

Sherlock swayed them through the room to the pace of the music.

"I didn't know you could dance," she said after a while.

"Hmh?" He was distracted. Barely looking at her, focusing on his environment, on details, details, details. "If I must."

Truth was, he loved dancing. He had always loved it.

Molly, of course, noticed that he wasn't paying much attention to her. "What do you see?"

Sherlock's glances were fast, were blurry and sharp. It wasn't as easy when the faces were covered. But his engine rattled on and on and on, she was cheating on her husband; his right hand was trembling - alcoholic; she still wore the pocket watch of a past love; dead eyes; fake laugh; Vienna accent; owns a clarinet- He saw...

" _Everything_."

But not what he was searching for. Not what he wanted to see. _Where is John?_

Molly noticed this as well. "You like him," she said.

"Obviously. Why wouldn't I like him?" He didn't look at her. But he knew what she was talking about. Because he thought of him, too.

"Have you ever liked someone before?"

Now his head snapped around. It was hard to think of something to say to this. That was rare.

"Of course," he started, but did not sound entirely convinced himself. "I do like... some people."

Molly smiled sadly. There had been a time where she had wanted nothing more than to be among that _some people_. She had since learned that Sherlock wasn't like that, wasn't that kind of man. And that it was fine. He didn't have to be in order to be important to her. But Sherlock had always seemed so... lonely. His happiness came second, or third or fifth. The work always came first.

"But have you ever-" she started anew.

Sherlock removed his hand from her waist as the music challenged them with higher notes. He still held her by the hand, keeping her at the distance of two arms that reached for each other. They stopped for a second, bodies half turned towards each other, but his head was spinning, spinning. He pulled and she moved forward, spinning, spinning, her long dress blowing up like rose petals blooming in early spring. Then she was pressed against him, back against front, his arm around her, her arm around his neck. It was all rehearsed steps, all performance. An act he had done a thousand times.

Molly had gone quiet, her mouth close to his ear as she finished the line.

"-cared about someone?"

His eyes widened behind the white crow. Losing the mask behind the mask for a second too long.

The music had stopped. The song was over. Laughter and a single compiled sound of murmur refilled the room. Molly's breathing went heavier and her heart rate had increased. Sherlock, obviously, remained unaffected. Without a heart, without blood pumping through his veins, he was always fully functional.

"Caring is not an advantage," he answered coldly.

Molly pressed her lips together so that she would keep her mouth shut about this. Instead she just said, "Found him."

She blinked. Up to Sherlock, to John behind him, down to the floor. She felt like the intimidating presence that wasn't meant to witness such private moments between them. Sherlock looked surprised to find John standing behind him so suddenly. Surprised but relieved. To have him back by his side. And Molly knew that this was what caring looked like. She wondered if Sherlock knew what they looked like. _Not so lonely anymore._

A little smile fell to the floor. "I'll leave you to it," she said quietly. Hoping the great Sherlock Holmes could observe what they looked like and deduce _why_.

Molly had left again, but Sherlock only saw John. His glass was almost emptied, his smile more tense. He could deduce how the conversation between him and the lady had gone, but he wanted to hear it from his mouth.

"Who was that?"

"Who- er, Mary. Ms Mary Morstan."

"What did you talk about?"

John was furrowing his brows. "Nothing, really. Already forgot most of it."

Sherlock frowned at him.

"Look, I'm sorry I just left your side. Shouldn't have done that, I know. But you looked like you still had... fun." He tried a smile. Didn't went so well.

"Fun?" Sherlock tried not to laugh. If this was what John thought had happened then … Well.

Now that he had time to run his eyes over him properly, he noticed something else. This was not his first glass of champagne. It was his _second_!

"That bad?"

"What?"

Another realisation made its way through his head. Something new. Important, exciting. He took the glass from John's grip before he could protest and placed it on the tray of a waiter passing by. Rather than a new glass, he offered John his own hand instead. He still looked utterly confused. Also a tiny bit drunk. Perhaps even... hopeful? Or was this part of Sherlock's own wishful thinking. He cleared his throat without needing to.

"May I have this dance?" He didn't demand this time. He asked. Putting himself in a position in which the answer could be a rejection, could be a _no_.

"I-I'm. I don't-" John stammered.

Oh God. This was bad. He would laugh at him. Sherlock tried with all that lay in his power to not let his smile fall, but it grew smaller, lost its hope. He was beginning to feel ridiculous.

John could hear his own heart pumping with the intensity of two, even in a room full of noise. He wanted to say yes, more than anything, in fact. He would surely ridicule himself if he danced with him. He had seen how Sherlock had danced with Molly. He appeared to really be good at anything. But when he danced, he looked alive. He took John's breath away.

"I'm not really... the dancing type."

Sherlock looked at him from under his lashes, still smiling away sweetly. John already knew he couldn't say no to this.

"I'll teach you."

John finally took the hand he offered, and Sherlock slowly closed the distance between their personal spaces.

"Where do I put my-"

But Sherlock heard him before he spoke. He placed his bigger hand over John's, and it was warm as his fingers touched the back of his hand, spreading goosebumps over the skin below his sleeve. He guided his hand between the fabric of his open tailcoat and the silken waistcoat, smoothing his palm over John's rougher hand that had healed, hurt, and would now learn how to dance with him.

Sherlock's hand stroke over John's own until he could finally remember how to breathe. His next breath felt like it filled a new pair of lungs. Sherlock had asked him if he didn't smoke, but this, this right here, was a drug filling his nostrils. They both watched as John's hand disappeared in Sherlock's tailcoat, holding onto his waist tightly, strongly. Sherlock put his hand to John's shoulder, and their gazes rose in sync, John's pinned to the long, marble-white neck in front of him for one second, two seconds, and then ... The blue sea met the blue sky.

John exhaled, carefully. Sherlock's voice had dropped, low and transforming into a shudder running down John's back.

"May I have this dance?" he asked again, now inches from his face.

John answered as he should have done the first time around. Their eyes locked, and he swallowed it all down like a strong red wine, meeting him with confidence.

"I thought you'd never ask.

His other hand joined Sherlock's in mid-air where they found each other naturally. Sherlock took a step back, and John followed. He taught him each step without saying a word, made his body the only language John would have to read. John's body read for him, followed even though Sherlock gave him the lead. Soon his ears picked up on the music on their own and began to understand the pace, the highs, the lows. His body moved to it, but his eyes never left Sherlock's. He switched from the one to the other inside the shiny mask of a crow, between the long beak, finding those eyes to look like an iceberg in the sun, but never cold. How could he not be cold if he wasn't flesh and bones?

_What is it underneath that chest if it isn't a heart? Tell me, please, tell me._

On the next note he pressed him closer and they were chest to chest. Sherlock's mouth fell open by a gap, his eyes widened a little. Had he impressed him? He wanted to ask, _Do you feel more alive if my own pounding heart is pressed against you?_

His mouth closed again, and a smile tucked on the corner of his mouth.

"Very good."

John smiled back.

"Envision a box in which you take your steps," he whispered.

They took one step at a time, swaying over the floorboards.

"One, two, three. One, two, three. A little to the right."

The back of Sherlock's tailcoat followed every movement dramatically.

"You were very good so far. You're a natural."

"Thank you."

"With the casework, I mean."

"I could always trust my instincts."

"I know," Sherlock said, like he had known him forever.

They danced a few more turns in silence, to the soft tunes the music provided, the violin, the piano the softest and loudest in this piece. John thought it sounded familiar.

"Wagner," said Sherlock.

"You remember the names of composers?"

"Music has always been a little treat I couldn't resist."

The next piece was faster. John adjusted the pace of their dance on his own. Sherlock smirked down at him. He looked impressed.

"This isn't the end," he said. "Moriarty must know someone is after him."

"You think he is prepared?"

"I think he counts on a big surprise. Watch your step."

"Sorry." John had just stepped on Sherlock's foot.

"He's that kind of unpredictable. A changeable force to reckon with. Raise your arm."

John raised his and Sherlock's hands, whereat Sherlock stepped forward and made a turn under his arm. This was a dance move he had seen many couples do before.

"What about the box?"

Sherlock's eyes didn't leave him, mesmerised. "Think outside the box."

One, two, three. One, two, three, and Sherlock twirled around himself again and put his hand back to John's shoulder. He couldn't help but think that his movements were strangely feminine, and strangely at that because at the same time they weren't at all. He was the gracile element in a thunderstorm, not bound to a gender at all, but uniting those two proclaimed opposites in the hard lines of masculinity and the wave-like forms in which he danced almost shyly, if you took a closer look.

John understood, quite like an epiphany, and as the music tumbled higher and faster in pace, that he didn't love men nor women. That the reason why he felt like his love had never belonged to either men or women in isolation was because he loved what he loved, had always done so. Had always wanted who he wanted. As simple as that. Even though he had known that for a long time now, it was Sherlock Holmes, the genius caught in a mechanic body, who made it so blatantly clear to him, just by the way he danced.

He pulled himself closer and their bodies rubbed against each other. John had trouble not to gasp out loud, but tightened the grip around his waist. Sherlock's lips brushed his ear as he whispered, "Dip me."

Not without the renewed fear that he was going to make a fool of himself, he hesitated. Sherlock's eyes bore right through him. The song was going to end. They both felt the song coming to an end. Sherlock let go of John's hand in his, leading it to his neck instead. Sherlock's warm neck, just the tip of his curls brushing the back of John's head. His breath caught in his throat. Then Sherlock closed his eyes. Let himself fall.

The whole room stood as still as John's heartbeat. He felt, distantly, how Sherlock wrapped his leg around his own waist, holding on and pressing against him, close, so close. Oh, his thighs, muscular and hard around his middle.

He caught him.

Of course, how could he not have caught him when it ran in his blood, his every instinct urging him to hold him there, just hovering in mid-air? One hand flat against the small of his back and the other to the back of his head, all five fingers buried deeply in curls that shimmered like amber in the light.

When Sherlock opened his eyes and they found his own, he saw something else in them. Something new. He wanted to kiss him right then and there. It was oh-so-tempting, with him bent over him, pressed to him, thigh around him, open lips only inches from his face. Sherlock's expression had lost its focus, dream-like eyes wandering to John's mouth and blinking slowly. Then his head dropped to the side.

"Shit."

He had never heard Sherlock swear before. John turned his head, too, and suddenly he understood. _Shit indeed._

Moriarty had entered the stage. He was watching over the crowd with a sly smile carved into his face. He had something to him, something so unmistakably dark that it could hardly be ignored, nor should it be. It challenged you to look at it directly. The first to look away was the first one to lose. He watched over everyone. He would find Sherlock!

The mask he wore was golden and metallic. It was pure mockery to those who knew what it meant. A robotic half-mask of gold and silver and bronze. It was the mask of a cyborg. _Pure mockery_.

Sherlock slid back into his old, controlled self, and in a heartbeat his intense presence became his absence.

"We have to go."

"Ladies and gentlemen-" They heard Moriarty say into a microphone, his voice even more metallic through the quiet echo in the background.

Sherlock took John by the hand and led him through the crowd.

"On this very special night of all nights-"

Everyone around him had become an obstacle. They appeared to be glued to where they stood, building a massive barrier. Sherlock couldn't get away fast enough.

"I want to thank all of you for your attendance." There was a pause filled with a sick kind of a silent threat. It was meant for them, somehow John knew it was meant for them, and he felt Moriarty's eyes seeing right through them, even though he had his back turned to him.

"It is a great honour to be here tonight. Now before I give it away for our next act, I just want to ask one question."

They had reached the other side of the room. There was a little staircase that brought them to the second floor, which was just like a balcony along the whole side of the wall.

"What would life be without nights like this? Hmh? Without a little challenge, a little threat? What if we all stayed the same every day? I will tell you. Staying. Standing in the way of change. We would all be booored to death!"

Somehow everyone found that extremely funny.

"And now, people of London, give it up for our jewel in the crown: The lovely and talented Irene Adler!"

A round of applause was followed by a moment of awe when the woman entered from behind the curtain. She wore a long black dress with little white butterflies on it. Her breasts shone in the spotlight, milk white and firm in her suggestive décolleté. The hem of the dress was like a black river flowing over the stage with every step she made. Close enough to the edge, she took the stander of the microphone between her milky fingers. Her eyes were closed, her lids cast in eyeshadow. Under long lashes her eyes snapped open and the music set in.

She started quietly, but there was a power at the back of her throat that made itself known on the notes she drew out like a good gin on her tongue. Her voice was deep for a woman, and round as it balanced every word like they danced on her very chords. Her range was remarkable.

 

 _He's a fool and don't I know it_  

_But a fool can have his charms_

_I'm in love and don't I show it_

_Like a babe in arms_

 

But there was something not right about this. The merry baggage didn't move. They didn't dance, they didn't smile. They didn't move. Simply stared straight ahead, bewitched. John could feel it too, a distinct itching in his fingertips.

"Sherlock. This isn't right. What's happening?"

 

_I'm wild again, beguiled again_

_A whimpering, simpering child again_

 

Sherlock bent further over the railing, staring downwards. For a moment John feared him to be under her spell too, but suddenly his head came around and his wide eyes turned from Irene Adler to him.

"Are you alright?"

This took John aback. "Yes. Yes, of course I'm alright, are _you_ alright?"

Sherlock looked ahead again. "Her voice, it's ... There's a spell to her words. She takes control over them. Brain washing. _Bewitching_."

 

_Bewitched, bothered and bewildered, am I_

 

Once more he turned to John. "And you are certain you're alright?"

"Yes, I... I feel it. I can feel what she's doing. But I'm fine. Unlike the rest of them. Sherlock, what do we do?"

"Where's Lestrade?"

They rushed down the stairs and made their way through the crowd of zombies. They were careful not to touch anyone, even though they were all transfixed by Irene's performance. Now they would attract attention because no one else was moving anymore. Where was Moriarty? What about those of the Yard who were waiting outside?

Irene sang her last note and smiled with crimson lips. She smiled directly at them. They knew that they were here. They _knew_. She left the stage. The people kept staring ahead. Then James Moriarty took her place behind the microphone. He clapped his hands.

"Marvellous," he said. "Absolutely brilliant."

Everyone else clapped with him, the same slow pattern.

"Irene Adler, ladies and gentlemen."

He stopped clapping. Everyone else stopped with him.

"Now that we are in the appreciative section of this evening, let us all take a moment and think about what we're grateful for. I, for instance," his voice grew louder as he spoke, "am extremely grateful to see my good man Sherlock Holmes joining us tonight! You all know Sherlock Holmes?"

The short applause returned and died quickly. Moriarty's dark eyes pierced through the crowd to find Sherlock and pin him to the place. The way he looked down at him, like a hungry predator, made John's blood run cold.

"Oh, what a pleasant surprise! So good of you to stop by! You should've said hello."

Moriarty grinned in an attempt to look friendly, but his white teeth were sharp and threatening. Or maybe that had been his intention all along. To look sharp, to look threatening. Next to John, Sherlock looked angry. Angry and helpless and terrified. This wasn't good. This wasn't good at all.

"Or were you hiding from me? That's not very polite."

With the sudden movements of a wild animal James Moriarty's head turned quickly, his eyes scanning the room.

"Say, Sherlock ... Have you brought some of your _friends_ from the police with you?" The way he said friends was weak sarcasm at best. "I think I've seen... the Chief Superintendent somewhere around here. Well, what an honour!"

Again, applause. Somewhere in the crowd around them a man in a black suit began to move. The big dresses and tall gentlemen switched positions like pawns on a chessboard, making room for him. A quiet rustle echoed through the room. The man stepped forward into the light.

"Sherlock."

But Sherlock held him by the arm as if to hold him back.

"Sherlock, we have to do something."

"We can't."

"But-"

"He has full control over the room. John, he would kill you."

John shut his mouth and looked at him. Sherlock was just as concerned and as frustrated about having his hands tied as he was. This wasn't going as he had planned, and he had sent them all here; the police, his friends and ... John. The slight layer of fear in his voice, his name on Sherlock's tongue was what held him back. They could only watch in silent defeat as the Chief Superintendent was mindlessly walking up to the stage.

The draining sound of the ever clapping hands, _clap clap clap,_ like the sound of drums, or a roaring _peng, peng, peng,_ like the sound of gunfire. It was maddening. What had once been a sign of enjoyment and praise was now the sound of submission. It finally ended when the man stood by Moriarty's side.

"It is a real pleasure to have you here, sir."

The Chief was blinking in confusion as though he had just woken up from a deep dream, not knowing where he was or why.

"Er, th-thank you," he murmured.

"Tell me, old boy." Moriarty swung his arm around the other man's shoulders, pulling him closer into his personal space like he was about to tell him a secret. "Do you like fireworks?"

"Ehm, fireworks?"

"Do you like to see the sky burn?"

"I-I suppose I do like fireworks."

"Good," he whispered, keeping him close. Like a hostage.

"Did you hear that?!" Moriarty yelled into the microphone. John pressed his hands over his ears in pain.

"The time has come!"

He felt a warm touch and saw that Sherlock let his hand slide into John's own.

"Oh no," Sherlock breathed.

**"Let it burn!"**

He squeezed his hand tighter as the world exploded. Left and right from the stage rockets fired off and into the air like a hundred shooting stars. The noises were numbing their ears, a deafening whistle on a scale, and their hearts staggered as above them the sparks kept sprinkling. White and red and yellow shots of firework attacked the high ceiling, _boom-boom_. People started screaming and panicking, shoving each other around for air and space.

On the stage, between the fire and smoke, Moriarty smiled, looking Sherlock directly in the eye. He looked so self-satisfied, so evil as he suddenly grabbed the Chief by the shoulders, pulled his head back and rammed his teeth into his neck. The lifeless body of the Chief sunk down to the floor like a heavy sack.

_He bit him! He bit him, he bit him, he bit him!_

Sherlock didn't move, was like a solid rock around this huge catastrophe. He just stared. Motionless.

"Sherlock!" John tried to get through to him before the ceiling could fall in on him.

"He's a vampyre," the detective breathed like a man who couldn't deny to have seen the devil. "Moriarty is a vampyre."

"Yes!" John yelled, pushing Sherlock out of the way before a burning timber crushed down to where they stood. "And we need to go now!"

But what was falling from the ceiling wasn't just wood. Black figures, hooded human beings were jumping from the roof into the flames. More and more and ever more, like a plague that was crawling out of the night sky's womb. They grabbed whoever they could get and slit their throats right open with their teeth. The brown floor was turned red, the dark ceiling was bright with fireworks. It was undeniable that they were vampyres. John would recognise their predatory movements, their quick attacks and brutal snatches from even the greatest distance. A cold shudder ran down his back. They were here. In the middle of London. _How?_

In the middle of the screams and the sound of the licking flames and explosions, John heard Moriarty's voice.

"No! NO! Not you! You weren't supposed to come here, not you!"

Through several heads and faces of shock, John could see that one of the human looking monsters tried to attack Moriarty, but he reached for the man first, throwing him over his shoulder and from the stage. What inhuman strength! No matter who was fighting against who now, there was no way that Sherlock and John would win against this horde of bloodsuckers all by themselves. John's head snapped around to focus on Sherlock again just when one of the monsters came running towards him, teeth long and sharp. In an instant, John snatched out his gun, not hesitating for a second too long to shoot the female in the head.

Sherlock looked after the vampyre as it fell down before his feet, his mouth wide open. John grabbed him by the shoulders and swirled him around.

"Sherlock! I need you now! We need to do this together, do you understand?"

It took him a moment, but he nodded. His hand transformed to a gun, just as he had seen him do before. He stretched out his arm, aiming his weapon at... John's head!

"Wait-"

A shot. John jumped out of his skin as a heavy body fell against his back and landed on the ground. He had saved Sherlock. Now Sherlock had saved him.

"You're right. We need to find Lestrade and evacuate the building."

This became so much more than a battlefield. Out there John had always known a soldier from an enemy. But in here? What was right, what was wrong? He shot at sharp teeth and skin as white as snow. Sherlock and John became a unit on instinct, solid rocks in a storm, while their enemies were as active as cats, as bloodthirsty as starved lions. It was horrible to see them falling from the rooftop to see their human claws cling onto the colourful dresses and black suits to rip them open in search for skin to sink their teeth into. Vicious mouths that were constantly smiling, glaring eyes, rushing and grasping, while bullet for bullet met their dead flesh. One big man ran past John, eyes wide with panic, and he could only jump back in time to not go down with him and his pursuer. He put a bullet in the vampyre's skull when his left ear was suddenly numb with white noise. Sherlock had fired a shot over his shoulder and another monster dropped dead.

They ended up pressed back to back, panting and shooting. Distantly, John could see beyond the next target and the muzzle of his gun. He saw Moriarty fist fighting one vampyre after the other, blood dripping from his whole face and mouth. The fireworks had stopped, but the smoke was still hovering like a thick fog through the room. Above them the stars shone bright and clear out of the midnight blue ceiling of the universe. A loud roar drowned out everything else for at least ten seconds, and holy bloody hell, how had the tiger gotten in here?!

The giant cat's fur was already covered in blood. With a jaw as big and strong it was able to crack bones and kill instantly.

"Sherlock!" he shouted again, his voice filled with a borderline panic this time.

Behind him they heard Greg Lestrade leading the people through the front door, and thank God, at least he was still alive and alright!

"We need Moriarty out of here!" Sherlock shot again. "Alive!"

He couldn't feel Sherlock's presence behind him anymore, and as he turned he saw him running to the stage towards a still fighting James Moriarty.

 _He will die for good this time!_ It was the only thought flashing through John's mind, but it was also all it took for him to sprint after him.

" _Sherlock!_ "

He could only see Moriarty turning around to embrace Sherlock with open arms and the bloodstained grin of a lunatic. Then his lights went out. A hard blow to the back of his head, and he was gone. Down on the floor.

"She-Sherlo-"

The last thing he saw under heavy lashes and a head full of pain and on the verge of unconsciousness was a smiling face. Large brown eyes were looking down at him. Her hair flew around her in wild, rapid movements like a black veil.

"Oh John," Janine said in a sing-sang voice. "Loyal little John. Ah, ah, ah. Stay down. Sleep now."

She laughed so sweetly, and he drowned in it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the song Irene sang I kind of imagined this version by Celine Dion:
> 
>  
> 
> [Bewitched Bothered and Bewildered](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PQ9uswdgNyw)


	13. The Shark Chambers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Moriarty's mask ball of disaster, John wakes up in a dark and unknown place. He meets a few new and familiar faces, but there is only one important thought on his mind: Finding Sherlock Holmes.

The world was blurry. Blurry and defined by one constant sting at the back of his head. No, not constant. It let go of his nerve endings every time his heart paused between beats. Every throb that shot through his veins brought pain to his temples. It drowned every other sound for a while. Blink, blink, blink. John began to gain back his consciousness. He was sure he had opened his eyes, but his world was still covered in darkness. For a moment too long he worried that he might have lost his eyesight. A moment that made his heart stagger in his chest and brought another wave of pain to his head. He realised then, by looking around and blinking more, that his eyes weren't used to the dark yet.

After a good minute, the darkness stopped being just black. It became stone and cobwebs and ... bars. He was lying in a cell. They had put him put him in a cell! No windows. Just one wall made of rusty bars. John sat up on his knees and tried to inspect them in the dim light. They were rough, probably quite old. Maybe with a kick in the right spot they would break?

"I wouldn't bother trying that."

John jumped at hearing another voice just out of the blue. Pressing himself against the bars, he tried to make out who it was that had spoken to him. First, he didn't see anything. Then a strange figure appeared on the other side, head long and mostly bold, lanky stature and put in a dirty suit that suggested he was here for some time already. He took one hand out of his trouser pocket to adjust the glasses on his nose.

"Are you a guard?" John asked, even though the man didn't look the part. But why else would he be on the other side and John behind bars?

The man's face showed a sly half-smile. Was there something funny?

"Wait." Suddenly, it struck him. "Do I know you? I do, don't I?"

That smile … _But of course!_

"We met! The day I came back to London. You talked to me at the platform."

"Dr Watson," he said in his paper-thin voice. "You remember. I'm honoured."

He didn't sound honoured.

"What are you doing here? Where are we?"

"The chambers. That's what we all call it."

"Who is 'we'?"

"Oh, a handful of people. Me, a few others and... James Moriarty."

Something in him shuddered at the name. "So you are working with him?"

The man chuckled, but instead of mockery it sounded like a display of deep regret. He shook his head. "No. I'm working on behalf of my own life. A huge difference, as you may find, _Doctor_ Watson."

Was he a prisoner, too? John felt the beginnings of a headache. But maybe it was only the pain from the back of his head that was slowly pushing forward.

"Alright, first things first." John was a practical man. "You know my name. You still haven't made yours known to me. Who are you? Why is he... using you?"

"The public knows me as Magnussen. Charles Augustus Magnussen. I am a businessman."

"Good. Businessman. What kind of business?" John already despised him.

"You never read any newspapers, Dr Watson? You will have no trouble finding my name. The news is my business."

"You report?"

Magnussen chuckled. This time it was mockery. “No. You don't understand. I _make_ the news. And whatever is in the news, the people will believe.”

"You are a fraud," John observed. It made sense. The man had always reminded him of a shark.

"Oh, no, no, no. I am a utilitarian. Everyone has secrets. Therefore, everyone can be owned. Owning people equals immense power, you see."

John bit the insides of his mouth to keep his anger to a minimum. He really did not want to interact with this man. But so far, he was his only chance.

"So you're a blackmailer?"

"Of course I am a blackmailer." He said those words like they were a title. Like he was expecting a reward for it.

"Then that makes you the instrument."

"What?" For the first time since he had put it on, Magnussen's disgusting little smile fell from his pale face.

"Obviously, when Moriarty has the power to do this to you, he must own you as well. He was in need of a blackmailer, of someone who has influence over what the public thinks. That's why his reputation doesn't have a scratch. He simply lets your people write it that way."

Charles Magnussen frowned. He had not expected this from John. But John had seen how easy it was put two and two together sometimes. He wondered if Sherlock Holmes would have smiled at him with pride.

"But he hasn't killed you yet," John continued. "If he keeps you down here, you must know a lot about this place, isn't that so? Thus, you can help me to get out of here!"

He hesitated. With his head bowed it was hard to tell what he was thinking. Eventually, he did speak up, his voice smaller than before. "Why?"

John sighed deeply, frustration and suppressed panic both going into it. Of course, there had to be a why, there had to be a reason for him to help John. As if they weren't both used by the same evil mastermind. But business criminals never changed, he supposed.

"What do you want?"

"You could make me an offer," he said like the greedy shark that he was.

John sighed again. He was starting to lose his patience here. Charles Magnussen might be holding the whip hand here, since he was on the other side of those bars, but John had the advantage of experience. Years and years of experience with life or death situations, with torture and talking himself out of executions.

"What kind of offer would you like me to make you?"

Magnussen smiled. "You could offer me a secret."

It was to be expected. Even under hopeless circumstances, the man remained obsessed.

"Alright. I will make an offer. And if you're interested, you have to get me out of here."

"Offer away. Then we will see."

He took one deep breath. "I will offer you a secret of Sherlock Holmes."

Silence. Magnussen didn't move for long moments.

"What do you say?" John asked, slowly getting nervous. He could already feel his only chance slipping through his fingers.

"Sherlock Holmes." The way the man let the name linger on his tongue disgusted him.

"Mr Magnussen, do we have a deal?"

"Dr Watson, you are most interesting to me. How could I decline your generous offer?"

"You couldn't. Now be so kind as to perform your part of this. Get me out."

He was quiet for a moment longer. Then he walked away. John could not see him anymore, feared for a minute that he might have changed his mind, but then he heard a set of steps coming back. It was Magnussen, thankfully, and he was carrying something in his two hands. It looked very much like an iron crowbar. Without reluctance, he was coming towards John with a dead and cold nothing behind those grey eyes. John crouched backwards over the dirty stones, being taken aback by the man's sudden actions.

With the loud clutching sound of metal against metal, the iron hooked into one of the rusty bars, provoking a scraping noise that made John's hairs stand on end. Magnussen braced himself and then, with a strength that didn't fit the lanky, scrawny stature of the man at all, he pulled. The whole grid gave a loud crack. He pulled once more, and that was all it took. The bars gave in and broke from their mounting in the fragile stone wall. So John's first impression had been correct. This was nothing he could not have done with a few precise kicks, had he only known the weak spots. Magnussen had clearly known them. The bloody bastard.

"Well, Doctor Watson, now I think it is your turn to- argh!"

Within seconds John had jumped to his feet, run out of his prison, taken Magnussen's crowbar with both hands and pushed him into the wall behind him, iron pressed against his pipes. He had to look up to the tall man from the underside of Magnussen's jaw, but John had no problem demonstrating which one of them called the shots.

"Alright, _blackmailer_. Now listen carefully. You will lead me out of this godforsaken place or I promise you I, as a trained doctor, will break every bone in your body while naming them."

"I always took you for a righteous man, Dr Watson," he pressed out while trying to suck more air into his lungs, "But using my own tricks against me ... I'm assuming your previous offer was also a bluff."

The blackmailer knew what he was doing. It was his profession after all, manipulating people. He was good at it, trying to read his opponents even while he spoke. With John, he was counting on his morals to get the better of him and stop him from threatening a defenseless man. It would have worked, had John not seen through it. Nowadays, his morals were more dubious than grounded anyway.

"I wouldn't give you anything on Sherlock if my life depended on you, you disgusting swine."

" _Sherlock_..." Charles Augustus Magnussen once again managed to make him want to punch his lights out. "I see. It seems you have won this round, Dr Watson."

That, at least, seemed to be the truth.

"Well. After you, then," John more ordered than suggested, "Feel free to lead the way."

He kept his grip on the back of Magnussen's collar as they walked through the halls of the underground. They passed by other cells, empty ones and ones with bones in them. Some of them had a sharp smell to them, one of faeces and decay. Few were inhabited.

"What even is this place?" John asked.

"It is the place where Moriarty keeps everything. Rather a masterpiece, I am sad to say."

"Sad to say?"

"For I could never print it."

"Ah."

He led them into another section of the chambers, far more modern and technologically advanced than where they had put John. Behind a large wall made of glass he could see a single man, round and with a face that was not quite right, maybe one eye too crooked or his head too round. Perhaps it was the grin that made John's blood turn colder in his veins.

"He stores a few people of influence, such as me or Smith."

John pointed at the man behind the glass. "He's... Smith, I presume?"

"You have never heard or Mr Culverton Smith? Oh, Dr Watson, do you really never read any newspapers?"

He eyed Magnussen critically and was now glad that he didn't.

"He is a very wealthy and well-deemed expert on exotic poison."

John nodded. Of course, Moriarty could use a poisoner with influence and money on his side. Or, at the very least, in his secret underground quarters. Poison was not only the most dangerous weapon in a coward's hand, it was also the most effective way of controlling the nervous system. It would explain how he was able to numb the nerves enough to keep his victim's alive during their 'modifications'. Through the use of neurotoxins he could manipulate even the sanest of minds. Sherlock was lucky the maniac had not tried his evil hand on his wonderful brain.

John went on quickly since Smith was making his hairs stand on end, and he had started talking to him from behind the glass with his high nasal voice, _Hey, let me tell you a secret. Do you want to hear a secret? It will not hurt, I will not bite._ Then he laughed. John got the idea he had taken (or been injected) too many of the drugs he worked with.

He kept on shoving Magnussen in front of him, both of them aware of the crowbar in his hand and his soldier background suddenly very fresh in his mind.

"Is this the right way?"

"You wouldn't know if I told the truth now, would you?"

"No, but you would know if I decided to break one of your bones. Move."

Magnussen swallowed. They passed by more dark hallways, not knowing what would await them in the shadows. He would have ignored the lingering flickers in the corner of his eyes for his sanity's sake, for keeping his head together and by Magnussen's side, who led the way under John's command. He would have ignored everything that was not the stones beneath his feet, had there not been a brighter kind of flicker, a light which caught his eye and would not let go of it. As though controlled by a stranger's force, he did not walk forward – he went left.

The water was shining and shimmering. He didn't know why, nor how, but there was a giant glass tank in the middle of an otherwise dark room, illuminating the walls and the floor around it. Thick cables were lying around it like hairs coming out of a monster's head. The glass tank was not empty. There was a person floating inside of it. Looking like a drowned man, like a peacefully sleeping creature, like a mermaid with human legs, floated Sherlock Holmes.

His nude body was pale as snow, seemed to be light as a feather, kept in place by wires coming out of his chest and vertebra. He was glowing in a blue light of melancholic depth. John did not understand it. The dark curls whirled around his head in slow motion. He looked stunningly beautiful, and John was pinned to the spot in shock and confusion and heartbreak. This wasn't _his_ Sherlock. It couldn't be! This was the body he had left back. And in the center of him there was a blood pumping heart. It shone bright red, glowing like a burning sun made of ruby, just beneath his ribcage. Ba-bumm, ba-bumm, ba-bumm. It was beating like a drum.

In the moment of distraction, Charles Augustus Magnussen sprang to action. He came running towards him and reached for the crowbar to rip it from John's grip. John, caught by surprise, let go of his only weapon. He was prepared to fight him, but Magnussen (the coward) was already running away. He was his only way out, he could not let this happen! He had so many questions yet, so many thoughts filling his head and spilling over.

Running after him, he suddenly jumped backwards as Magnussen's body froze. Stopped right in his very movements, he looked like he was frozen in time. John wondered for a second if it was him who had lost his mind, but then he noticed a purple aura around the man, zipping like electric sparks through a lilac lens. His face looked horrified. The eyes were bulging out of their sockets and he made a strangled noise as if someone was trying to gag him. Then he collapsed to the floor.

The clunking sound of metal echoed from the walls as of the iron bar met the floor. John bent down to take the weapon back to himself and be armed with at least something. Little pearls of sweat were tickling his temples. The warm air went straight to his head. When he straightened his back again, a silhouette was emerging from the shadows. Slim, curvy, _bewitched_.

John held his strong grip around the bar and took small steps backwards. He was the soldier, the protector of Sherlock's lifeless human body. He was prepared to fight the witch with everything he had. She raised her arm and he swallowed, convinced she would try to cast a spell on him or do whatever she had done to Magnussen. But she didn't. Instead, she slowly approached him like a wise man would to soothe a frightened animal.

"Dr Watson?" She called him by name and title, her voice strange in tone and in the silence of the chambers.

He squinted at her. "Adler."

"I know what you are thinking. I know." Her arms were still reaching for him, defensive, soothing, but to John her hands were deadly weapons. Only now he noticed that her lips were not painted with the fiery colour she usually wore and that the strange blue light made her appear much more vulnerable. She was wearing a dark dress shirt and trousers. She did not look intimidating. She looked human.

John was still suspicious, of course he was. She had almost killed them multiple times. Where had she come from? How long had John been stuck in these chambers? For how long had he been unconscious?

"I will explain everything. It is a lot to ask, I understand, but I will still ask you to trust me."

John threw his head back for a sarcastic laugh.

She narrowed her eyes at this. "I am your only way out at present! Do you have anything better in mind?"

His face fell at this. He hated that she was right, but he could not deny it. Biting the insides of his mouth, he turned around to look back at the tank. "I'm not leaving him."

She came closer. His muscles tensed.

"You are confused," she said. They were both looking at Sherlock's glowing form. It calmed him to share this, to not be alone with his own thoughts and helplessness, even though it was a criminal who was standing next to him. And yet it bothered him that she was seeing what he saw. That she saw his naked body, that she was part of Sherlock's vulnerability and exposure.

"He looks much softer now than he always pretends to be, does he not?" she asked quietly, afraid of him not letting her. "Stripped of everything, what remains for all of us is only the essence of the disguise. That's why it is frightening to be ourselves."

John's eyes roamed all over Sherlock. He wished for nothing more than to touch him. To feel him responding to his touches, to hear the heartbeat he saw right before him, bright red colours, wanting out. They were so close. He had come so close to saving him. This was his heart, was it not? Right before him. It was pumping, it was living. He had found it. His missing heart.

"Why are you offering your help now?" he asked back, and just as quietly. Never taking his eyes off him, afraid he might disappear.

"I have answers."

"Do you really?" Now John turned to her with crossed arms. "Because I just asked you a question and you didn't answer it."

"Let's go," she said simply, stepping back to leave.

When John did not move, she threw him a glance over her shoulder. "You staying here won't do him any good, you know?"

Cursing silently under his breath, he eventually followed. What other choice did he have? He didn't think twice about Magnussen. As a doctor, he should feel an obligation to at least check on him. At this point, he was a helpless pawn in Moriarty's long game, as so many others. But as far as he knew, his wealth and obsession with power over innocent lives was why James Moriarty's name had blown up to what it was now.

"I kept Milverton alive," Irene said as soon as John had caught up with her.

"Milverton?"

"His original name. You cannot make a name in the undergrounds if you don't fake your death at least once and return."

"So what have you done to him?"

"You don't care about that."

He did not. Again, she was right about him. He was partially impressed and irritated, while distantly knowing that decent men were supposed to mind being abducted by dubious people. It was turning into something of a habit.

"It is no hardship for me to come down here," she continued.

"I'm not asking you how you found me here. I want to know why."

She let out a sigh. The dark stone walls were oddly illuminated where they walked through, and soon he understood why. The hall opened to a large tunnel entirely made of glass. If John had not been feeling claustrophobic before, he was certainly feeling it now. The glass was keeping tons and tons of water secured behind its surface, casting them in an alien kind of blue light. He felt like his skin was cooling and a quick wave of goosebumps ran over his arms, up and under his rolled-up sleeves. Against the glass and in these masses of water, he saw movement. Floating flat faces and dead eyes, belonging to some of the greatest predators. Seeing them should be a privilege reserved for the vast territory of the open sea. Yet, here they were, swimming and twisting and turning above and around them.

Sharks.

Looking behind him, John found absolute darkness. It was a heavy feeling pushing against John's ribcage at the thought of leaving behind Sherlock, in whatever form or whatever place, and it was fear settling in his bones. He felt watched. He felt tired. He felt like punching a wall. Punching the glass walls and letting the water and sharp little teeth consume all of him.

"It's complicated," Irene began.

"Isn't it always?" John asked, frankly unimpressed.

"I worry about Sherlock Holmes."

John laughed disapprovingly. "Oh no. This whole mess is _your_ fault. He was in _your_ basement."

"He did this to himself. I never wanted this to happen."

"Wait, what do you-" _He did this to himself? What does that even mean?_

She pushed him back slightly, grip on both his shoulders. But unlike last time, her aura did not scream killer, and the thing that was most intimidating about this was not her but the bronze hammerhead closest to the glass. The tiny, lifeless eyes of a caught animal.

"Dr Watson, I am sorry you are now involved in all this. The depth of my apology knows no end, believe me. When he takes control, I am his and myself is distant. I have power, but he turns it against me and I am losing. Kate and I were only trying to survive him."

There was a moment where he thought she might break and cry. It did not come. In another moment he didn't believe one word she said. The turning point came once she mentioned Kate. John did not praise himself for being able to read people, but he had absolute trust in his gut feeling. This time it told him that Irene Adler sounded like she knew love. And that was all he needed to know.

"Just tell me," he whispered, tired of fighting her, tired of distrust, "did you know that I would come and find him? Is that why Moriarty sent me to you?"

Irene almost looked like she pitied him for all the things he did not know. "There is no way we could have foreseen you, Dr Watson. And I mean this as a compliment. He sent you because of my injury. Everything after would have turned out very differently, had Sherlock not injured me. But back then it was his only chance."

"What do you mean?"

"He did not mean to do any harm. At that time we were, him and me together, trying to save him from the big bad spider."

John pictured Moriarty with a hundred pairs of eyes and shuddered. Something about this story did not add up at all. "You tried to... _help_ Sherlock Holmes?"

"I did. And I was close to finding a way for him, but he – James Moriarty..." Her gaze kept wandering off into the distance like her mind had gone blank for a second. Then her eyes locked with his again. "I am not as naive and fragile as you may think."

John frowned in surprise. "Fragile is not exactly a term that has come up when I think of you, to be quite honest."

Irene ignored that comment. "He had me," she murmured, and then, louder, "Parts of me. I remember everything, but it was always a foreign substance that I felt my body shuddering against. I multiplied and multiplied to keep the bits of myself that were still clean, but it has left me weak."

"Why would Sherlock not tell me about the two of you cooperating?" John wondered aloud.

"Because he feels betrayed by me. Sherlock knew the day would come where James took me completely, and when it did come … I could not fight it. Sherlock defined me by this, and he defined our differences. He thought the loneliness was his strength, and sentiment was my weakness. That this was why I lost to James Moriarty's evil hand. It is not unlikely that he fears the same might happen to him now."

So John really was the exception to the rule? Sherlock had never particularly kept his distance with him, but he had also never felt completely trusted by him. After all, he knew now that there was yet so much more he had not told him.

"I believe you," he said, and she smiled. Her smile was thin, but she smiled.

"I understand and appreciate how difficult that is for you, Dr Watson. Did I ever apologise for almost killing you?"

John huffed out a laugh. “Is it too late for you to do so now?”

Irene chuckled under her breath. That was the warmest and most honest interaction the two of them had ever shared.

They resumed their walk through the long tunnel until the sharks were out of sight and the shadows grew darker again. She led him to a ladder on a near wall.

"Your way out is right here."

"But Sherlock is-"

"He is fine. What you saw in there..."

They both looked back into the darkness as if they could see through walls.

"It's not him. It's what he left back … Go now. He needs you."

John took the first steps on the rungs before he looked over his shoulder.

"Go on," Irene encouraged him. "I'm right behind you."

Before he could express that this was exactly what worried him, he was already doing what she said. On the ceiling there was some sort of lid that he pushed aside, and then he narrowed his eyes expecting to be blinded by sudden daylight. But there was no daylight. Instead, it was another set of stonily walls and floor and ceiling. John climbed out of his hole from the underground and his ears were filled with a terrifying sound. The sound of sharp heels echoing from the walls.

He looked up and there she stood. A woman, tight skirt, white ruffle shirt and chequered waistcoat. Her brown hair was pulled upwards and secured by a little beige hat. She was eyeing John from head to toe, not blinking once. Then she lifted her arm and spoke into her golden cufflink.

"Found him, sir."

From one's capturing hands into the next pair, John thought bitterly. He seemed to have a gift for these things. Looking back down the hole, a part of him hoped to see Irene climbing out of it. But there was no sign of her.

_Great. Just great._

Not for the first time in this short last week, John Watson started to wonder if any of this was now his reality or if they had put him in a coma after being shot and he was still dreaming. As easy as it would be to tell oneself this, deep down he knew. His mind could never come up with this much madness. This was not a dream.

 

***

 

The woman's name was Anthea. She was probably lying about that being her name. Every attempt to speak to her ended quickly. She had made it clear that he had no other choice but to follow her, and in a cab with black windows they drove off to another secret place. John's eyes hurt from the sudden hit of daylight once they had left the underground tunnels – which was where Anthea had found him. While walking through the tunnel system John had wondered if these were the same tunnels that were leading to the House of Parliament. Anthea had not answered to this.

Now he was once again in nearly complete darkness and the dim light of a little lamp, and he was feeling the beginnings of a headache creeping between his temples. Anthea was reading a book in a foreign language with one hand and held out a bottle of water for John with the other. John tossed down half of it in one big gulp, feeling much more alive already. He tried to focus on that, the little, positive things and tried to blend out the worry and anger nagging on the back of his head. Anger at being toyed with and thrown around like cats do it with mice. Worry at the thought of Sherlock Holmes. The Woman had said he was unharmed. Could he believe even one word of what she had said?

Anthea walked him to a huge building with a beige stone facade once they left the cab. A glass sign next to the door read, _The Diogenes Club_. John had never heard that name before. Despite that, he found the interiors to be fitting its name, even though he had no idea what the name meant. Dark wood covered the walls and floor, and the main hall was full of old men with grey beards sitting on broad chairs without talking to each other.

"What is this place?" John asked, and a few of the men started staring at him as if personally insulted.

Anthea just looked at him with raised brows, internally rolling her eyes at him, and pointed at the ceiling. Following the hint, John noticed another glass sign right above his head. _Absolute Silence_. Ah, of course. Why not make this even stranger?

They went to the reception and Anthea exchanged a bit of sign language with the man on the other side of the desk. Once they were allowed to go to the next room, John began to get nervous. He had fought it for the entirety of their trip, but it took more and more out of him to ignore it now. Who would await him in that room? Another madman? James Moriarty himself? This whole arrangement was just what he would do. Leaving John in the dark, giving him the soft layer of hope at having made it out, only to crush it after a long hour of suspense.

Anthea knocked on the door with the name Holmes engraved in it. _As in Sherlock Holmes? What was going on?_

She poked her head through the door. "He's here, sir."

Then she drew back and waited for John to step in on his own. When he didn't, she gave him a smile full of pity.

"Go on. He won't bite your head off. Well, not all at once at least."

Hesitantly he stepped into the room all by himself. For a second he considered just going for it and run to get out of this place as fast as he could. It would not work, obviously. Also, there was a little and definitely mad part in him that was way too curious about the person awaiting him on the other side of the huge mahogany desk. The room had high ceilings with high bookshelves. There were only a few, selected items on the desk itself, neatly placed. One of them being a glass decanter with a gold brown liquor in it; scotch, most likely.

"Pray, take a seat, Dr Watson."

The man in the big chair spoke to him and John's head snapped up instantly. He could not see him since what he was facing was just the chair's broad backrest. When neither he nor the chair made another move, John stepped forward and pulled back one of the less important looking chairs on his side of the desk. That appeared to be pleasing enough, and the huge chair finally turned around slowly. A long man was now facing him, both his elbows on the armrests and his fingers steepled under his chin. One of his brows seemed to be ever so slightly raised by default, and his small eyes pierced through him in an intimidating way. His hawklike nose and pale face only emphasised everything the man probably wanted to emphasise.

"I have heard so much about you," he continued.

"Really?" John asked dryly. "That is odd. I have heard absolutely nothing about you. In fact, I've not even heard your name."

The thin-haired man smiled a sly half-smile like he was pleased by John's impolite response.

"I'd be very sorry if you had."

"And why is that?"

"Because I would have made sure you forgot it and would never be able to remember it again."

"Are you threatening me?" John was tilting his head with a hard stare.

"Oh no. You would know if I did. Do you feel threatened?" The man asked with false sympathy.

"I feel like you're trying."

"Yet you do not strike me as very afraid."

"Well, perhaps you do not strike me as very frightening."

Another quick smile. "Ah yes, the courageous knight. Courage is by far the kindest denotation for a fool, is it not?"

John only narrowed his eyes at him.

The man's expression changed as well. In the blink of an eye, his eyes were made of steel. Done with playing games?

"What do you know of Sherlock Holmes?"

"Depends."

"On what?"

"Who's asking."

That earned him another smile. He didn't think he wanted it. "You've read the name on the door, I presume. Would you like to make an elaborate guess?"

The smile turned into an unfavourable grin with every bit of kindness lacking to support any authenticity behind it. _Holmes_. Obviously, this was not exactly an uncommon name. At least that was what John had initially thought. But this could not be a coincidence. He remembered what Sherlock had taught him about coincidences. _The universe is rarely so lazy_.

"You're his brother." Mrs Hudson had once mentioned it to him, but never Sherlock himself.

It should be a relief to see the man giving him a genuine smile for being right. But him being Sherlock's brother did not make him any less of a threat yet.

"Pray, tell me about your relationship with Sherlock Holmes." This time he did not ask but demand.

John's heart jumped against his ribcage. His relationship with Sherlock Holmes? _Conceal, don't feel_.

Attempting to give him nothing to work with, he shrugged and took a look around the room. "I don't really know him that well."

"I don't believe you, Dr Watson."

"Oh, that is a shame. Perhaps _I_ don't believe _you_ to have good intentions. Why won't you tell me your name, for instance, if I already know who you are?"

"You cannot even fathom all the things you do not know about," he said, making it sound like a threat. He was probably good at threatening people. Well, with John he would have to put in a little more effort.

There was a pause before he looked at him again, his gaze calculating and hard to read. "...You know him."

"Yes," John answered, slightly confused. "I thought that was established. Why would I be here otherwise?"

"No, you said you _know_ him. When you talk about my brother, you are talking about him in the present tense. Interesting. Almost as if you didn't believe that he should be dead."

 _Dammit!_ He was not as good at this as he had thought. The man was getting much more out of him even when John thought he was giving him nothing. That was proof enough that he and Sherlock were related, but this information did not help him at all.

"Do you believe that he is?" John asked carefully.

The elder Holmes pushed his chair back and stood tall behind his table. He reached down for the glass of brown liquor and began pouring himself two fingers of it. "I'm afraid we have not been able to find enough evidence to come to either of the definite conclusions. Any... _inside knowledge_ that you can provide would be greatly appreciated."

So the man, despite his apparently wide range of influence, had no idea what had happened to Sherlock. He didn't know any more than those who wrote the news. John felt himself lifting the thumb the man had him under – he didn't have the upper hand! They were even.

John shrugged again, trying to look indifferent. "I don't think I have seen more of him than you have."

"I doubt that, Dr Watson. He made it a habit of seeing and hearing as little of me as possible, even when he wasn't in hiding, which I _strongly_ suspect he is," he shot John a pointing glance that could be another warning to tell the truth, "thus, he would not do so now. His childish side often outweighed the rational one, and he tended to act on his emotions rather than on logic."

John frowned and shook his head a little. Was that really the same Sherlock Holmes they were talking about? He doubted they were many others out there, but the descriptions of his brother barely sounded plausible to him.

"We had, what you may call, a difficult relationship."

John huffed a laugh. "Of course you did."

The elder Holmes narrowed his eyes on him, but John continued. "Sibling rivalry. Why does that not surprise me?"

He was provoking him, he realised. It wasn't obvious at all, for he was a very controlled man, but he saw it. A little twitch of his eye, a tiny twist at the corner of his mouth. He was not as cold as he played it here.

"Dr Watson, I must ask you again what you know of the disappearance of my brother. So far I have been nice and civil. Let me assure you that this can change in a blink, and then you will wish back the days of being captured against your will. Now," he closed his eyes for one second, two, and when he opened them again, the false smile returned. He sat down, took a sip from his expensive scotch. It seemed he had given his tension right over to John, who now sat straighter in his chair opposite him. "Tell me of how you met my brother. Your name has only come up recently. This doesn't usually happen. Sherlock did not have many associates. Believe me to know all of them."

And here he was, having accused Sherlock of being obsessed with control. His brother was on a whole different level. Still, the fact that he had never heard of him before was not to be taken lightly. He had no means of betraying Sherlock's trust or taking away his decisions from him. On the other hand, he had no doubt the man would make his threats come true. He seemed to care a lot about Sherlock as well. He wondered how long he could stretch his patience before the punishment would come. But he was willing to find out.

"No."

The man's grip tightened around his glass. He lifted one brow. "No?"

"I won't tell you anything. You haven't even told me your name." John tilted his head with a stern look on his face. A challenge.

It took a lot out of his opponent to stay calm. He pressed his lips together, closed and opened his eyes once more. "My name is under strict concealment. I couldn't possibly tell you, even if I wanted to."

A loud knock on the door served as an interruption to their tense staring contest.

"Ay, Mycroft, ser! I've bad news for ya."

They both turned to the door in surprise, and John smirked – actually smirked! – when he saw Bill Wiggins standing in the door frame. He had no idea why or how, but right now he only had to know one thing. Turning back to look at him, he saw the previously so intimidating man covering his face with the palm of his hand as if he was utterly done with the world.

"So _Mycroft_ Holmes," John said, biting the insides of his mouth to keep himself from laughing, "I'm not so sure everyone got the memo about the strict concealment."

"I can come again later, ser," Wiggins offered, then looked over to John. "Hullo, Dr Watson."

"Hello." At this point John was practically glowing with amusement. He had no idea what was going on, but _god_ , had he needed a moment like this to lift some of the tension that he was carrying with him for far too long.

"No, stay. You're already here now," Mycroft muttered into his hand.

John looked at him in disbelief. "How the hell is Wiggins working for someone like you?"

"None of your concern right now, Dr Watson." Mycroft looked up at him again. "Enough with the playing around. No need to be so vague about this anymore. Obviously, William Wiggins has kept me informed about your recent involvement in my little brother's organisation. Now we find ourselves at war. What does that tell me about you, _Knight Captain_?"

The smile was washed from John's face in one cold wave of shock. "Wait, what? What did you say? How are we at war? With whom?!"

"Do you never read any newspapers?"

"Very funny. I was _captured_ and therefore stuck in Moriarty's underground fish chambers. Which you have clearly known about. Sherlock tried to locate his quarters for months! Why have you never reached out?"

"Moriarty never caused too much damage, and there was no need for fuelling Sherlock's obsession with him further. I let him play his little games, but I do not interfere."

John balled his hands into fists. "Never caused too much damage?"

Mycroft had to look away. "I have to admit that was perhaps a bit of a miscalculation. But no one could have known what he would do with the monsters."

_The monsters? He means vampyres. God, have they made it to the city?_

John licked his lips in anger and worry. "Tell me about the war."

"Mr Wiggins."

On the call of his name, Wiggins took a step forward. "The vamps are streaming into the city like salmons down the river. Acting like animals at night, but right now they're silent. Won't take 'em long to press forward, though. Ah, my news, ser. It's 'bout the Queen."

Mycroft raised his chin. "What about Her Majesty?"

"Been evacuated. Just outta the city. Location unknown."

He took another sip, then stood up and turned his back to them. He was looking out of the window, and his hands were clenched into fists behind his back. "I can't believe they would not tell me first," he muttered under his breath. Looking over his shoulder, his gaze was once again cold and controlled.

"I will have to get back to you, Dr Watson. But for now, there is work to do. Feel free to address all of your questions to Mr Wiggins, who will escort you back to your home. You are dismissed."

"I'm not working for you," John protested.

"C'mon now, slow and steady," said Wiggins while holding the door open for him.

It was not as if John had wanted to stay longer, but rather that he was tired of being shoved around and told what to do by people like Mycroft Holmes. He had served to follow orders, but he was a civilian now. He chose who he wanted to follow. There was one and only one consulting detective who he belonged to, and he needed him now. He needed to see him, to speak to him, to make him explain. But first and foremost, he needed to know that he was okay.

He let himself be led out of the office, then out of the building and into a hansom cab next to Bill Wiggins.

"Anything ya wanna know, Dr Watson. Ask away."

"I won't let you escort me back to my flat. You know that, right?"

"And where else ya wanna go?"

"Baker Street, of course."

"Yeah, thought so."

"Why do you ask, then?"

Wiggins shrugged. "Just making conversation."

John sighed. Yes, there were so many questions spinning around in his head. But he needed time to sort them out, to figure out how to ask them. And he needed Sherlock to give him the answers. Always Sherlock. The only one he knew he could trust in this. _We find ourselves at war_. It did not feel like it. Looking out of the window, it did not look like it. It looked like every other day in London. But the streets were empty. What was a city without its citizens? There was one question he really wanted to ask, though.

"How come you are working for Sherlock's brother?"

Wiggins seemed to think about this for a moment. "Mycroft 'olmes offered me money to keep 'im informed about 'is brother. Keeps me off the streets."

John frowned. "No, it doesn't."

Wiggins shrugged again.

"So why have you not told him about Sherlock's return?"

"I might be poor, bu' I'm not stupid. Mycroft's worried and 'e pays me well. But Shezza's a friend o' mine. A real friend. We used to get high t'gether."

"High?!"

"Ah, no worries, doc. 's just cocaine."

John shook his head to himself. "Jesus..."

 

***

 

"See ya 'round, doc!"

Wiggins drove off in the cab, and John found himself standing in front of that door again. The green door with the golden letters. Before he could tell himself this was a plan not quite thought through, that he could have asked himself how he would get in once he got here _before_ he actually got here, he noticed something. Looking left and right to ensure no one was paying him any attention, he walked towards it. He had not been mistaken – the door was open! Just like the first time he was here, the door was open just a gap. Had something happened? A break-in?

John felt sick in the stomach. As silently as he could he pushed the door open and entered the hallway, gun out and raised up to the side of his head. He went up the stairs, cursing under his breath as one creaked under his step. It was awfully quiet, and his nerves were tense to the point of breaking. He let the door to the living room fly open with a push, ready to shoot.

The curly head swirled around, framing the pale face that was so full of surprise, of shock almost.

"John!"

He let the gun sink abruptly, but he didn't know how to feel. Seeing him again made his heart pound harder in his chest, made something bloom around his core. He thought he might have lost him. But at the same time, he felt shame. He felt like a disappointment. He should have protected him, he should have brought him to safety. All of him.

Sherlock's blue eyes were wide open, were sparkling with something close to relief. He came towards him in long strides, graceful with his dark red dressing gown swinging around his ankles. His arms reached out, and he didn't stop, and for a moment John thought he would … But he didn't. He did stop, right before him, and placed his big hands on his shoulders. He looked at him like he did not have the slightest clue what to say.

Neither did John. He had ached to see him again, but still, he came unprepared. "You're here?"

"Yes, Wiggins told me my brother found you."

Sherlock's heavy gaze ran over him from head to toe, looking for... injuries maybe?

"How could he possibly know that I..." he paused. _That I would insist on being brought to Baker Street_. Apparently, everyone was giving Wiggins far too little credit for his abilities.

John's mouth was open to say something, but a smell in the room caught his attention. Over Sherlock's shoulder he saw that there was a lit pipe on a piece of newspaper. A newspaper that had caught fire!

"Sherlock!"

John ran towards the coffee table on which the fire was comfortably burning away, for the first time taking notice of all the chaos in the flat. Papers over papers across the whole carpet. He took a few and rolled them together. With those he hit the little flames again and again until they give up and died out. The title page of the paper was now crested with a large, cole-black circle, halfway dissolved into ash.

"Not even you could have survived being burnt down in your own living room," John murmured, yet way too relieved to shout at him for being so inattentive. He looked around. "What is all this?"

"Research. In those current times, I need to know everything." After a moment, his head snapped up to look at John, like he wasn't sure if he had said too much.

"Don't worry. Mycroft Holmes already told me."

"What did he tell you?"

"Far from everything I need to know."

"Yes, he wouldn't."

Sherlock fell to hands and knees to grab two hands full of papers and stuff them together. John was watching him and felt the remaining energy draining from his body. Long day, longer week. He did not know sleep anymore.

"I didn't know you believed what people print in the news," he said, suppressing a yawn.

"I didn't know you did not," said Sherlock as he stood up and off the ground and put the papers on his chair.

"Wait." He collected himself for a second, eyes closed. "Have you met Magnussen?"

John sat down on the red chair. "Yes, I have recently had the pleasure to meet Charles Augustus Milverton. Marvellously insufferable."

"Milverton?"

"His original name," John answered naturally.

Sherlock eyed him sharply from his standing position, looking down on him. "There's something different about you," he mumbled, but more to himself.

"You too," he remarked, and his tired eyes grew softer with worry.

"No," Sherlock said, turning around sharply before he let himself fall into his chair, dressing gown flying behind him dramatically. "I'm just in agony!"

His head fell back and for long seconds he didn't move. Then, suddenly his head snapped up again. "I wish I could smoke, feel the nicotine entering my lungs. Why didn't I-" But he stopped himself before that sentence came to an end.

John watched him.

All of a sudden, he seemed to realise what he was sitting on, grimacing as the paper rustled beneath his buttocks. "What am I even doing?"

He stood again, motioning John to get up as well.

John was confused as he walked him backwards until the back of his knees hit the sofa.

"Hush now, lie down. You need rest."

"But- But there is so much that I... and- and the war?"

Sherlock picked his violin up and out of its case, caressing it with gentle fingers. He smiled at him from over his shoulder.

"The war will still be going on tomorrow, Doctor."

John could not help but listen and obey the rumbling voice in which he spoke, soft as a purring jaguar. His eyes fell closed even before his back had touched the sofa's cushion. Yet, he gave his best to stay awake.

"Wiggins mentioned to me that you used to take cocaine together."

Sherlock was quiet for a moment too long. "Sleep now."

But John ignored him. "Why?"

"All in its time."

John's head was heavy, was a small boat floating on the sea, back and forth and up and down until he lost himself. And yet, his ears were still alert and he heard the sweet tones of strings and clever fingers.

He began to play a low, melodious air – harmony and dreams poured into his music. He couldn't recognise the piece, and perhaps it was his own. He had a remarkable gift for many things, and John wouldn't be surprised if he had one for improvisation. Whilst he played, John saw him behind closed eyes. The rise and fall of his bow and his chest, his earnest face as it was looking down upon him.

"When did you learn to play the violin?" he mumbled but did not get an answer. Maybe he was already dreaming, not speaking aloud at all. But falling asleep was so easy now. Now that he felt safe again, here at Baker Street, with him.

It was the last thing he remembered before he fell deep, deeper still through this sea of sounds right into dreamland.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Took me a bit longer this time. But it's a long chapter, and I hope you like it!


	14. Risen From the Dead | Part I.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock Holmes tells the story of how he died and came back to life.

"My brother gave it to me when I was a kid."

John blinked his eyes open. He felt like he had slept for at least a week, judging by his dry mouth and light head and back pain. He remembered a dream, vivid and close, but he didn't remember what he had been dreaming about. As if a part that was once his reality had been wiped out with each slow _blink...blink...blink_.

Sherlock was sitting before him, and he briefly wondered if he was really there. It could be a perfect illusion, like the one he now distantly remembered from his dream. Had he spoken to him? He could have sworn to have heard that rumble, that gentle voice of a wild beast with orchestral tendencies.

"What?" John's voice was but a sleepy whisper. His mind began to put the syllables together and understand what Sherlock had said to him. And that he was indeed sitting on the couch table opposite him, legs crossed, studying his face like one would a valued painting. John felt slightly uncomfortable.

"You asked about my Stradivarius before you fell asleep," Sherlock offered as an explanation.

John finally came to his senses, sitting half way upright on the sofa on which he had slept. That explained the back pain. Stretching and rolling his head from one to the other shoulder didn't do much either. Which explained the headache.

"You never mentioned your brother," he replied after he had caught up.

A long pause. Sherlock looked down at the neatly folded pair of hands that lay in his lap. Eventually, he took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh.

"No, I did not."

Then he stood, the buttons of his shirt and waistcoat straining, some trying to hold the piece together. John told himself he wasn't staring. Sherlock turned around and disappeared into the kitchen. Noises filled the flat, and it sounded very much like he was making tea.

It could be difficult sometimes, knowing how to feel. Many thoughts were spinning through John's head. Many questions that were accompanying him for quite a while now. But Sherlock was behaving... strange. He had no other way to put it. The man was always strange but never quite like this.

"Are you alright?"

The noises in the kitchen did not stop, and Sherlock was crying out his response over the whistling of the kettle.

"You were kidnapped twice during the last forty-eight hours, endured life as James Moriarty's prisoner one night and day, following that the introduction to my insufferable brother. Are _you_ alright?"

John pressed his lips together. He waited until the kettle had boiled and he heard the clinking of silverware against porcelain.

"You know why I'm asking," he said to Sherlock as he came back from the kitchen. "What affects me far more than this is that I still don't know what happened to you. To _all_ of you. To London. We are at war, Sherlock. How?"

Sherlock stopped for a minute. He was standing in the middle of the room, and with the cup and saucer in his hands, he looked like he was waiting for a guest who had long left his restaurant. A little bit beaten, his hair tussled, his eyes light blue. What had he done while John had been sleeping? Probably scouring more newspapers and old case files, running through a few calculations and pulling on his hair all night.

He sat down on the sofa this time, next to him. "I'm sorry... John."

At hearing his own name wrapped around that tongue, he looked up. Sherlock meant what he said. He was feeling sorry. For not knowing the solution to this case. For having left him in the dark? John accepted the tea wordlessly. The chinking of the spoon whirling in the cup filled the space between them.

"Did you hear the screams through the night?" Sherlock asked with care.

John pondered over this for a moment. "I heard you playing. I don't remember any screaming."

It made him wonder how he could not have heard it. He had the keen ears of a knight. Not waking from a noise at night could easily mean death for a troop.

"I'm glad," said Sherlock.

"But you heard them." Silly of him to ask. Sherlock did not sleep. Of course, he had heard them. He heard every single cry all night long.

The only answer was a small nod. John drank his tea and waited. Keeping the conversation going was never an issue for them. They always found an interested party in the other to talk about anything that came to their minds, and even in their silence, there was comfort. It seemed only too ironic that now that there were so many words to be said none would come out. John depended on Sherlock's words, as always. But he would not find the first, so maybe John should help him.

"You are avoiding-"

"I know," Sherlock snarled, but his expression told him his irritation was directed at himself. "I _know_ I am concealing what it is you are obligated to know. It isn't easy for me to... I feel... I should have expected this." His words were gaining speed as the guilt broke through. "But somehow it isn't Moriarty's way of handling things. It isn't him but if it isn't him, it must be someone else, Doctor. Someone we haven't yet reckoned with, someone we have been ignoring and thus, did not see what was staring us right in the face. If only I knew..."

John huffed a laugh, but no amusement went into it.

"Is there something funny?"

"Not at all. But that's something new."

"What?"

John looked at him like a tired man. "Well, there seems to be a lot that I don't know about but you do."

Sherlock, in turn, gave him a knowing look. He knew he was at fault here. But there was something else in that look. The curiosity that John arose in him, the fear of him knowing more than he ought to.

"What did you see in there?" The detective asked, already expecting to know the answer.

In there. _The chamber_. John closed his eyes, remembering. The pale, sick skin behind the wall of water, the red light, the sleeping face of a conserved human shell.

"Irene Adler," he said, opening his eyes to see him. "And you."

Sherlock's eyes dropped down. He gave small nods of understanding what this meant for both of them.

"What do we do about this?"

"What do you mean 'do about this'? There is nothing to do about this," Sherlock insisted.

John put his cup down on the table before it would spill. "I saw you, Sherlock. I saw your heart and... I have my doubts you understand what that means."

"Are you sure about that?" He took a deep breath. "How can you be sure that I'm not the one behind all this? That I know exactly what is in that chamber because I was the one putting it there in the first place?"

John was staring at him in outright denial. "No. I know you."

"Oh, do you?" He was on his feet in an instant, pacing between the couch table and the window like the personification of his own unsettlement. "You said it yourself, I am not even alive. This form is most likely to be the only version you'll ever know of me, and what in the heavens leads you to believe it is not but a fraction of what I used to be?"

"Sherlock."

"You were right, John. I am not the same person I once was. Death changed me. You've seen death and it changed you, and now I'm going to make you see it again. You don't deserve-"

"Sherlock! Would you shut your goddamn mouth for a minute and _listen_? I don't _care_. At this point, it is no concern of mine who it is that floats behind that glass tank. That isn't the person I put my trust in. It isn't the person I fought for, the person I fell-" his mouth swallowed the last bit before his head could stop it from being uttered. "The person I'd die for."

Sherlock had stopped pacing, reduced to a hanging mouth and moved to speechlessness.

"So tell me, Sherlock Holmes. Why did you decide to kill yourself?"

 

John poured another splash of milk into his new cup of tea. His old one had gone quite cold. They had exchanged their places on the sofa for two chairs around the kitchen table.

"I knew we could achieve greatness, James and I," Sherlock continued.

John's question had given him the choice of either keeping this part of him to himself entirely or to tell him. Tell him everything. What made him like this. Hearing him refer to Moriarty as _James_ was only a minor idea to get used to in comparison to what would follow, of that John was certain.

"It might sound mad in retrospect but I assure you, he wasn't always the madman we know today. He was a fellow student of mine. Driven by jealousy and frustration as he was, I did not see the danger in him. I saw an equal. A rival worthy of my own capacities. It goes without saying that... I was wrong."

Sherlock held John's gaze to the clinking of the cup being taken out of its saucer.

"I learned that he was just as fascinated by the thought of overcoming death as I was. It can leave marks as fatal as this, losing someone. It can lead to a road of madness and obsession. But I refused to acknowledge those signs for the sake of what we were working towards. This changed after Victor. Victor Trevor and I knew each other for quite some time already. You could say he was the only friend I had during my years in university. I trusted him. So I decided to let him in on our work. If only I had known that I would seal his fate that day.

"I showed him the early drafts. The wired puppets and figures attached to clockwork and machinery that students like us could afford to store without attracting notice. But it were sad results for what we had wanted to achieve. Ultimately, it was Victor who had claimed that you needed life to create life. Life could never come from man's pair of hands alone. When I proposed to include Victor, James was not amused, to say the least. But for a little over three months, it worked. We made great progress. But soon enough, the inevitable was beginning to cloud Moriarty's mind.

"He lost all sense of reason. Became obsessed with the idea of using a human subject if our experiment ought to be successful. I must admit to you now, I was not immediately repelled by the idea. I had previously read about scientific sacrifices. But Victor rejected this plan as soon as it was presented to him. He said this was going too far, warned James not to lose himself to this. I took Victor's side. Silently mourning over the waste of all our time and energy. But I saw that we had come as far as we were able to."

The teaspoon hit the ground of the cup like a bell in a tower.

"James Moriarty, on the other hand, wasn't ready to waste anything."

Sherlock's eyes dropped to his hands, but his mind was elsewhere. And suddenly, John knew exactly what had happened.

"When I found Victor, I knew that he was dead. There were wires in and outside of him, machines surrounding him. But he was not moving. He was not going to move ever again. James Moriarty killed my only friend."

 

_"Stop crying, Sherlock."_

_His sing-sang voice made shudders run down stronger man's backs. But Sherlock just didn't feel anything._

_"He wasn't your friend, Holmes. He was a threat to us. He made you weak. Look at you."_

_Sherlock's cheeks were wet from all the sorrow he had always known so well, and yet never known like this. A bottomless sea from within him. Loss was known to him from a very early age on. It seemed almost logical that it should continue now._

_James came closer, approaching him like one would a frightened deer. As if the deer could not smell the gunpowder on the hunter's hands._

_"We can make this right, you and I. We can bring him back to life. Is that not what you want?"_

 

"I watched him being arrested and taken away to never be seen again. There were rumours that he was to be taken to an asylum on an island far from London, but I did not want to hear of it. I was prepared to leave everything of this event behind me after the funeral. Only one thing never sat right with me. He had kept everything of Victor. Everything but his heart. I could never understand why he would take it out when it was the one organ keeping the body alive."

John watched his eyes darken. "Have you found your answer now?"

"All those years it was always unclear to me, but now I know ... He eats them."

They held each other's gazes in support of all the chaos found in the world around them.

"But yours is still there," John whispered.

"I know. I believe he spares it. And I believe I know why. John? I will tell you what happened to me."

He took a moment, and John understood. He opened his mouth to take a breath of courage. John would have given him all the time he needed. Then the door flew open.

"Is it true?!"

Mrs Hudson burst into the room like the lively woman that she was. Eager to get her answer, she looked around the living room, hurrying on her little heels. At seeing John sitting on the table as though nothing had ever happened, her face lit with relief.

"Dr Watson!"

He stood up to greet her properly, and she put her arms on his shoulders, leading him to believe she was going in for a hug. Instead, she was inspecting his face with the eyes of a worried mother.

"Thank God, you don't look as terrible as I feared."

Before John could say his confused thanks, he was pulled into a warm-hearted embrace.

"Sherlock," she said once she let go. "You could look a little happier over the doctor's return."

John saw what she meant. His expression in itself displayed the inner conflict he must have felt. About to tell John of an action in his past he was less than proud of, felt perhaps even shame and remorse towards. But now there was a third party. A party that also cared a whole lot about him. A party that also deserved the truth. Now Sherlock Holmes had to make another choice. It was obvious that he was debating, heart against head. But well... heart?

"This is my fault," he whispered.

Mrs Hudson shook her head in immediate objection. "No, dear."

"I built this body. Not James Moriarty."

John swallowed this information like a heavy lump made of sandpaper. They were both waiting for him to go on and explain. Mrs Hudson sat down.

"After Victor Trevor ... I turned to the cocaine bottle. Thought it might make things easier."

"Did it?" John asked with a voice so sharp it made Sherlock look up from under long lashes.

"It dulled the pain. As you can imagine, I dropped out of university. I lost all passion for what I once loved – chemistry, physics, _science_ – for now I knew the weight of a sacrifice. I was too weak to bear it. That's when he found me again."

"No," Mrs Hudson shook her head. "Sherlock, it was your brother who brought you here when you were recovering."

"When I was getting clean the _second_ time. But not the first."

"Jesus..." John shook his head. He saw from the corner of his eye how Sherlock bit his lip over his reaction. They were watching each other. Too afraid to disappoint.

"He tried to persuade me into working with him again. Argued that Victor's death served a greater cause, and only I could help him explore it."

 

_"Look at you. Look at the pathetic form that is left of you. What have you become without me?"_

_The words were echoing in the halls of his drugged mind._

_"What are you, Sherlock Holmes? What are you now?"_

 

"Did it work?"

Sherlock appeared to be wanting to melt through the floorboards. "...Yes."

"With our work fuelling me, my head became clearer. I understood what I was doing, what he was doing. We began building this body together. Measured me, designed me up to the very last detail. I knew I was going to... lose to him. He was going to steal my mind from me."

"But he failed?"

"No. Eventually, I was able to escape before his vicious fist closed around me entirely. I have a few contacts in the underground ... That's when I met Bill Wiggins. It should be no secret that he was an addict back then, and I, with my history, followed shortly. Once more, the cocaine spared me the memories."

Mrs Hudson had clutched a hand over her mouth, and John took her other hand in his.

"Mycroft finally located me. He dragged me out. Forced the drug addiction out of me. And brought me to you."

He looked at Mrs Hudson with heavy eyes. They spoke of gratefulness, somewhere under the thick layer of apologies.

"Baker Street was finally a place I felt content enough coming back to. From then on, the work gave me enough of a distraction to keep my mind at bay, additionally granting me the satisfaction of lowering the number of England's lunatics. Due to my obvious advantages over the police department, my help to them soon provided me with a reputation and I became the world's only consulting detective.

"I tried my best to forget. Years passed. But as a series of strange and seemingly unsolvable murders overcame London, I was no longer willing to ignore. If I had the time to build something of a career in my field of expertise, I could be certain Moriarty had done the same. I informed Lestrade, got together a small team of people he trusted, and then... Well, you know what happened next. After all, I knew better than all of them what the man is capable of. It did not take me long to say with certainty that what Moriarty was doing involved many human sacrifices. He was building an army."

John frowned. "What against?"

"I should not be given the opportunity to find out until it was too late. As merely a month later, he picked me up a second time." His blue eyes shifted a few times between John and Mrs Hudson before he averted them. "When I was considering to end it all."

"Oh, Sherlock," she sobbed, took his hand now. John and him were connected through her, the air heavy under the weight of truth.

He told the final part of the story in a low voice. "I built this body. It was the golden thread drawing through my whole life, it was the accomplishment I couldn't help but crave for. He forced me to finish the work we had started, but when he threatened to make me into the first one of my kind … In that moment I saw him through the lens of a scientist. I saw the opportunity to truly overcome death.

"I sat down in the chair, knowing I'd lose my life. He was going to cut my head open. And I embraced it when it came. So that is how." He looked at John. "How I killed myself."

John held the storm in those conflicted eyes with his own. "It wasn't the question I asked. I asked you why."

"Can you not imagine?"

A sweet pain struck the area around his ribcage. Only too familiar. "I can."

"For the rest of your questions, I'd like to take you with me to Scotland Yard. There we can address everything else that needs to be addressed. Along with... the death of Sherlock Holmes."

 

***

 

John could feel what was going through Sherlock's head as they drove over roughly paved streets on this foggy morning. Shame, regret, a disconnection stronger than he had ever known it. He would have to tell everyone about his true state of being. Why he knew so much about Moriarty's activities. Why he knew so much about the man himself. And all of the things he didn't know. He had seen this face before. The one that was now looking out of the window, was not paying attention to the empty streets but rather to the emptiness inside himself. He had seen it all on his own face the day he had come back to London, the windows of the train teary with raindrops. A mirror in which he sometimes caught his own eye, barely recognising himself.

Sherlock's body was tense. Frustration was worn like a second skin. He had given up everything, all of him, and yet he was not able to quit sentimentality.

"Why do I care so much?" he mumbled against the glass.

John was watching him. How his fist closed over his mouth like he wanted to conceal a part of himself that did not know the answer. His curls dark in the grey light outside, his pale skin stretching over the carved edges of his cheekbones. He was beautiful. He was a cyborg. The answer to the question of eternal youth. It scared him so much that even his well adjusted mask could not hide it.

"My brother tried to teach me this. _Caring is not an advantage_."

John had already known he had good reasons to doubt Mycroft Holmes. He put his warm hand over Sherlock's in the space between them. Surprise cleared his eyes from worry and he turned around to look at him.

"Perhaps it isn't," said John. "But it makes you incredibly human."

Sherlock thought that, from John's lips, it did not sound like such a bad thing to be.

Opposite them, Mrs Hudson didn't utter a word, neither did she question what she saw. Her wholehearted smile broadened on the inside. She was a woman of decency. So she kept that secret smile to herself for the entirety of the ride while John and Sherlock watched the world outside pass by, holding hands in conjoint silence.

 

"Is anyone missing?"

Sherlock entered the room beneath the Scotland Yard police department like a thunderstorm. John stood next to him with his arms crossed.

"Apart from Hawkins, obviously," John added.

Sherlock looked over and their eyes locked. They had not lost a word of Janine Hawkins. Whether he had seen her striking him down with a smile on her face or deduced it later on, it did not matter much now.

"I cannot believe she would do a thing like that," Lestrade said. Apparently, everyone was already well aware of the newly arranged pieces on the chessboard.

John wanted to feel bitter about being once more the fool with the littlest knowledge of them all, but he saw Sherlock's face then, saw the anger and the frustration over not having read the dark haired woman's true nature. No doubt he concluded that his mistake had led to John's capturing.

The detective whirled around to take a look at everyone and raise his voice.

"If there is anyone else who would like to tell me they are spying on us on behalf of those we are fighting against, here is your chance!"

Sherlock was frowning at Anderson, who immediately raised his hands in defence. John was looking at Wiggins. But he would not say a word, and neither would John.

"Where is Molly Hooper?" Sherlock asked.

He took a look around and counted. There was Sally Donovan next to Lestrade, Anderson and Mrs Hudson, Bill Wiggins in the corner. That made it three people missing. Janine and yes, Molly Hooper and...

"She is staying at my house," Lestrade explained, "Resting. I believe we can all agree that after what happened to Tom, she deserves some time to recover."

_Tom_. Of course, Tom was the third one missing.

"He didn't make it?" John asked quietly.

Lestrade's head turned sharply from John to Sherlock, surprised that John would have to ask about Tom's tragic fate, that Sherlock would not tell him what happened. It had gone very quiet as none of them dared to raise their heads or voices, afraid to disrespect those who had passed away.

Sherlock took a deep breath and braced himself. The first item on the list today was a hard one. "Before we move on-"

"Move on?" Anderson's outrage was showing. "You realise this is your fault, Holmes, don't you?"

"Oh, is it? How so?"

"You enraged that man! This all started after he noticed our presence, did it not?"

"It _isn't_ Moriarty who did this," Sherlock responded between clenched teeth. Anderson was not listening.

"This is where it all began, where it _always_ begins, with one psychopath meeting his equal and pulling everyone around him into massive destruction! At this point, there is nothing that tells me all of where we are now did not come about because of you!"

"Then why are you here?!"

"I am here because of her!" Anderson's finger pointed at Sally Donovan. "Because she told me there was some sense in you, some _good_ in you." Sally was looking just as startled as Sherlock. "And I was enough of a fool to believe her. To believe you were not simply a lunatic drug addict that gets off from a bit of power in his hands. Now look at where you and this professor have brought us!"

They were yelling at each other, stumbling over each other in this big mess of words that were leading nowhere.

"It _isn't_ James Moriarty, and if you took a moment to use whatever there is between your ears, you might consider _listening_ to what I have to tell you!"

"If we hadn't listened to your nonsense in the first place, maybe an innocent man wouldn't have died!"

Silence was the only reply that followed this. Anderson was on the floor. John was on him, grabbing him by the collar with a hand that had just punched the man in the face.

"Sherlock died by the hands of Moriarty, you pompous prick!"

Everyone was staring at John, hearing John's rage and anger breaking out of him, at Anderson who had trouble keeping his eyes open and his nose from bleeding.

"Dr Watson!" Lestrade hurled forward and gripped John by the shoulders to pull him up and away from the defenceless Anderson.

John's breathing was heavy but slowly the signals of pain in his hand and the sight of what he had done made him come to his senses. Sherlock was staring at him with his mouth agape. Speechlessness with him was always worrying. He should not have said that. He should not have done that. Shame crawled over his body but he was still panting too hard to acknowledge it.

"John," Sherlock whispered. His eyes were so very hard to read, but he still held them with his own.

"Holmes," the man on the ground groaned weakly.

Sally Donovan hurried to help him up and support his weight. "Here," she gave him a kerchief against the bleeding.

With a sick voice and all the anger washed from him, he spoke again. "You never told us what happened to you when you were gone."

For a moment, John thought he had not heard him, for he was not looking at him. His eyes wouldn't leave John, and when they finally did, he was stripped of everything.

"I died."

Absolute silence left the room counting on Sherlock's actions alone. Then he decided to tell his story.

 

 

"...This is how I knew what he was doing. He did it to me."

They all sat quietly around the table in the middle of the room. Even Anderson, who held his possibly broken nose in a blood-tainted handkerchief, seemed genuinely shocked and finally conscious of his own inappropriate behaviour.

"Holmes," he started, making it sound like the beginning of an apology. "If I had known..."

But Sherlock waved him away.

John's brain rattled. Having heard the story a second time, far less detailed and personal than before, still unraveled more questions than it answered.

"He is building an army," John said slowly, looking up at Sherlock. "That's what you said. But if it isn't him who wanted this war, then who... _Oh_."

Sherlock waited for him to say it.

"Them. The vampyres."

Everyone froze while Sherlock's silence said everything. "I never said he didn't want this war. I am saying that he saw the inevitability of it, with it a new world in which he could rule. I could have known sooner that he is a half-bred."

"A half-bred!" exclaimed Lestrade.

Sherlock nodded. "Not a full vampyre. That I would have noticed, inspector. The signs were all there. No family, never eats, hardly sleeps. But I ... for too long I ceased to believe in such a creature. I saw it and I ignored the illogical, ignored that whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.

"Too human for a vampyre and too much of a monster to be part of our world. Forever caught in between two forces. And he has found a way to take revenge on both of them. Become a consultant, expert in murdering people on behalf of more cowardly men, then use the corpses to build a robot army, and use the army to fight what he knew was coming. A vampyre invasion. I regret to say this but, in a way, it is rather brilliant."

"So, so wait," Lestrade pinched the bridge of his nose to still his spinning head. "Does that mean that this man, this _madman_ , despite every crime he has committed and all the blood on his hands, is somehow on _our_ side in this battle?"

Sherlock's grey eyes were piercing and stern. "Make no mistake. You might think the enemy of your enemy is your friend. But once he defeated them, he would have no reason to stop. Once his knife has torn the skin of the limb he wanted so badly to remove, he would never retreat from cutting through all of it. That way he can pretend to be the only one capable of stitching it back together. He could lead two colliding worlds, caught in his web."

"But it went wrong," John said before all eyes lay on him. "Moriarty was not prepared for the invasion to happen in that night. So if the leader of those monsters – and they must have a leader – knew of him, knew of his mask ball, they saw the perfect opportunity to strike. Thus, they must know of his plot against them, which means..."

"He must have a traitor on his side as well!" Donovan concluded.

A strange noise changed her face of short victory into one of confusion. It was the slow _clap-clap-clap_ of two hands applauding, accompanied by the sound of heels over stones. They all threw their heads around, tense, expectant. But as an alluring voice began to speak, John knew exactly who it belonged to.

"A magic trick." The voice filled the room, though there was no owner in sight.

Sherlock knew it, too. He stood up in defence even before the dark mistress was stepping out of the shadows. Her shoes stretching over her knees and tight black trousers were as seductive as the corset underlining slim hips and fair breasts over a white frill blouse. Her hair was neatly put up and her knowing smile finally shone red again.

"Who is she?" Anderson whispered.

John thought about putting a hand on his pistol, but he refused to give in to the urge as he watched and waited for her to reach Sherlock and face him. She was the one who helped him escape. Who first plotted with Sherlock Holmes against Moriarty. Beneath whose walls it had all begun for him.

"She is _the Woman_."

Irene Adler had proven herself a match to him a long time ago. Whatever else she would prove to be to them was determined by every next move she made.

"You know, the thing with a magic trick is," she continued, "they never quite play out as one expects. Magic is a cruel force."

"Have you come here to torment me?" Sherlock pressed out. He was a lot taller than her, but right now the upper hand was not his own.

"Black magic can't help but bite back sooner or later," she went on. "The reason for his success and your failure, Sherlock? He read the books that were forbidden to him. Books that took you way too long to believe in. One of the few mistakes you made, darling."

"Stop it."

She did not. "One of _his_ few mistakes was not reading between the lines. Had he done so, he could have realised that with money and magic, trust is always built on fragile grounds."

She took yet another step forward, and John's hand felt the dangerous comfort of his gun against his palm. She was so close and never one with clear intentions. She might either kiss him or bite his head off.

She did neither of those things. Did nothing but sweetly whisper,

_"I'm here to win you a war, my love."_

And the red stretched over her teeth.

 

"I learned a lot of James Moriarty's personal history before he enslaved my mind to his liking. As I did of yours, my dear," Irene began and opened a large map of London on the table they were all seated around. Sherlock, standing, had his hands on his hips in silent judgement, though he did not interrupt her. It was obvious the two of them had history. He respected her, treated her differently than most.

"You were told his whole family died in a terrible accident. Well, they did die. But it was no accident. It was a war. A war outside these walls. You've seen it too, haven't you, Doctor?"

John nodded. It might even be that his ex-commander had killed some of them with his own hands.

"James is a bastard, born from the womb of a female that fell in love with a human. She was impregnated before he turned, but they had hope that the baby could live regardless. He did live. And his parents, clueless yet of what he was, gave the little boy a sister."

"James had a sister?" Sherlock asked, surprised.

"Her name was..." she whispered and her bottom lip trembled in the pause.

"… _Eurus_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part Two is going to follow shortly! (Sorry for the long wait.)


	15. Risen From the Dead | Part II.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Irene Adler tells the story of how Moriarty brings life back into the dead.

"Her name... was Eurus."

"How have you come to know all this?" John wondered aloud. Trusting her proved to be more of a difficulty. He had lost too many allies in the last few days and he was not yet ready to gain new ones that could not be trusted with certainty.

Irene straightened her back and stared right above everyone's heads into some invisible void. "I know him well. You must know that it was him who came to me, never the other way around. When I had my small business, I was the consultant and he was the client."

 

_"I understand that what you do," James Moriarty spoke lowly, running his hands over the titles of books in her shelve._ "Witchcraft _… It comes with a price."_

_Irene stood behind her desk, watching him with a false smile. She would never show it, but he unsettled her deeply. When he had entered her tent, she had thought of him as quite pretentious a man, puffing his chest out more than he ought to. But her opinion of him turned quickly once she recognised the black spots in his aura._

_"It does."_

_There was something about him – something dark in his eyes that wasn't just colour, something vicious behind his teeth that wasn't just a smile like every other. She could not see him behind that black suit, and that indeed unsettled her deeply._

_"Would you want me to read your future for you? The more you pay, the more I'll see," she said._

_He smiled, and Irene suppressed a shudder. She could not put her finger on what it was he made her feel, but it was dangerous._

_The man stepped closer, leaving the books to the dust. "You will have no need reading me in order to see the future."_

_Irene was ready to defend herself. He would stand no chance. Only there was something else about him... something that did not unsettle her. It was the weakness to her character; she was intrigued to listen._

_His pupils widened, stayed in place and pinned her down even as his head tilted to the side like that of the reptile he pretended to be. "Lay your eyes on me and you'll know:_ I am the future _."_

 

_Moriarty sat on the chair in front of her. She had let many clients sit down on it before him, but none had shown so much resistance. His reluctance only fuelled her suspicions; there were things he was hiding, hiding even from himself. The sheer thought of having his past exposed to her planted in him the urge to strive against her attempts._

_"In order for my powers to let you in, I will have to read you. All of you," she told him again._

_He bit the inner flesh of his mouth. Magic demanded sacrifices, demanded the loss of control to a certain point to be grasped. This was his point, and point of pressure at that. But in the end, giving in was the only way forward._

_Moriarty snorted and finally gave a sharp nod of unwilling agreement. "Try not to cry."_

 

"You read his mind?" John asked in astonishment. He could not begin to imagine the experience.

The Woman nodded, reminded of the horrors. "I felt it all. All of the loneliness and anger captured and compressed inside one mind, as endless as the sea. But while his rage is something he shares with one Sebastian Moran, his sadness is neither expressible nor to be buried. It is too infinite to be understood.

"It was me who taught him the practice of witchcraft. You have to understand, he promised me things. This isn't me justifying my actions, this is me explaining them. There was enough money in it that it made no sense for me to keep my own business. Soon I was owning a house, and not long after I got to know Kate. Suddenly I had things to lose." Her eyes turned to Sherlock, and there was an emotion in them that met its equal. "We're so vulnerable when we have things to fight for, are we not?"

Sherlock held her gaze with difficulty. But he held it.

She continued, "I knew he was stealing books from me. At this point, I was already too dependent on him to do anything against it. I never knew for certain what books he took, and it wasn't my place to confront him about it, though I had my suspicions, of course. Most of those books I would not even touch myself. Black magic is a complex form of power. Think of it as the element of fire; it is not to be tamed and not to be owned. Due to knowledge and practice, you might be able to spray the sparks and choose where to set the flame, but once you let it go, you have no control over where it burns. Nor how far it will spread and what will be reduced to ashes in the process.

"I also knew – as did you, Sherlock – what he was hoping to accomplish through the world of magic. I saw the bodies piling, each in their separate shells, conserved and waiting for him to be ready. To resurrect them. But there was one body, a female, that was not in a shell. She swam in a tank."

Her eyes met Sherlock's again, and he swallowed. John resisted the urge to reach out and soothe him with a touch.

"She was beautiful, with long legs and pale skin and dark, dark hair that floated in waves around her head. I can very well imagine why he chose her. They did not look unalike. For the first time, he exploited the body of a stranger in order to resurrect a soul foreign to it. And when I finally realised who he was trying to reawaken in the body of the dead woman, it shook me like nothing ever had before. He was trying to bring back his sister. Bring back Eurus Moriarty."

Irene took a deep breath. "And he succeeded."

As it happened many times, at the most important of times, John had a gut feeling that they would not like what Irene Adler was about to tell them. As it happened most of the time, he would be right.

"I understand that you all knew Janine Hawkins and identified her as a traitor of your kind, but I assure you that you never really knew her at all. She was never a part of you and she was never on your side. Janine Hawkins is dead. She was dead before she ever came into your lives. The woman you know under that name is James Moriarty's vampyre sister and she is the most dangerous thing you have ever encountered."

They all took a collective gulp. The lump that had gotten stuck in his throat hurt, but John's head hurt more. He ignored both. He had felt, of course, that there was something wrong with that person formally known to them as Janine, but to this extent … There were simply no words to express this feeling, this hard inner shudder of coldness.

"Dr Watson," Irene addressed him and he looked up, "You may call yourself lucky that she kept you alive. Truly, I'd go as far as to call it miraculous you are still with us."

"Thank you," John replied bitterly.

Suddenly Donovan spoke up from where she sat. "This is _her_ war. If she is not our traitor, then she must be Moriarty's. She was in on it all. Knew it all.” Her eyes moved quickly over the wooden tabletop as if she was still putting all the pieces together. But she was smart. She already had. “She is the one leading the vampyre army, is she not? Please tell me I'm wrong."

The Woman pressed her crimson lips together. "I'm afraid I can't."

Moriarty, blinded by his loneliness in an ever changing world and the chance of a family, did not see her true intentions. Or perhaps he actively chose to look the other way one too many times. John's eyes switched back and forth between Sherlock and Irene. They were so alike, Moriarty and he. Two lonely boys caught up in the dangerous game of battling their own demons. Only that Sherlock Holmes had chosen to fight against the pain that Moriarty inflicted on the world. God knows they would all be lost, had Sherlock ever decided to follow Moriarty on his dark path.

"So what is the plan now?" John asked the Adler woman. "Do you know any of their strategies in taking over the city?"

"Well," Irene looked over to Sherlock, who urged her with her eyes to go on. "They can only strike at night. But with everything else … I fear my knowledge is exhausted."

John gave a sharp nod. She was right. Irene Adler might have the talent of storytelling and reading minds, but a battle was not her field of expertise. Luckily, it was his. Taking a look at the map on the table, his gaze shifted over to Lestrade.

"Where are they now?"

Lestrade jumped from his chair as soon as he was addressed, surprised at suddenly being of some importance again.

"We have been trying to evacuate the buildings they invaded and rescue the survivors," he began, pointing at the outer areas closer to the edges of the map. "They are coming from over the walls and making their way to the inside."

"They are trying to take over by closing in with a circle formation?"

Before Lestrade could answer, Sally Donovan stood up. "Not quite. Even if it may appear otherwise there are not enough of them to circle the entire city. They are moving in circles growing smaller, like a spiral. Look," she explained and marked the recent attacks in chronological order. They all drew closer around the table to watch.

"Right..." said Lestrade, "Right!" like he was being handed a very obvious fact. He must have been used to that feeling already.

"And if we know their pattern," John started, "all we have to do now is-"

"We wait," Irene interrupted. She received ten eyes full of shock. Except for Wiggin's pair, who was the slightly bemused bystander that he always was.

"Wait!" Anderson exclaimed.

"It is _logical_. Think about it-" she continued, but Sherlock's raising hand shut her up.

"A moment," he whispered, slowly letting his commanding hand sink. "I think we have another party who would very much like to disagree with your suggestion, Ms Adler."

His sour look met the door and probably whatever lay behind it.

"Sherlock-"

"Shh!"

On cat's feet, he made his way to the door frame, stretching out his hand to reach the handle.

"Would you stop lingering at the door and come in?" On the last two words he tore the door open, and behind it stood one mildly startled Mycroft Holmes.

The man tried to look the other way, believing for a second he could still come up with an excuse. Sherlock was having none of it. "Oh please, I could hear your disparaging snort from where I was standing."

"What is he doing here?" John breathed.

Irene crossed her arms with a bemused smile. "Maybe he followed you, too."

"You realise the insanity of it all, don't you, Sherlock?" Mycroft stomped after the angry detective, followed by Lady Anthea who did not bat an eye.

"Then leave, for all I care, if you're so displeased with how the real work is done!"

He grabbed Sherlock by the wrist and he swirled around, facing him eye to eye.

"This is not 'real work', it is a fantasy, and believing you could defeat this army all by yourselves is but a suicide mission that will lead to mass destruction."

"Why did you come here?" Sherlock snapped. "No one invited you!"

A cough came from the table around which everyone had stood up to watch the scene.

"Actually... I did," Lestrade confessed.

Sherlock's mouth fell agape. "What?"

"I didn't know what else to do." The inspector walked towards him, his face a helpless apology. But rather was he apologising for not being sorry at all. "Holmes. We need him! Even you must see that this has grown over our heads. This is-"

"Shut up. Don't say another word."

"Sherlock." Mycroft addressed him calmly. He had finally let go of his arm. There was something else in his face. A rare emotion. As rare as any emotion at all. _Desperation_.

Sherlock ignored him. His head was turned towards Lestrade but his eyes were closed. "Did you tell him?"

"Holmes-"

"Did you?"

" _Sherlock_ ," Mycroft was pleading. Never in his life had he done that. "Please. Look at me."

The room felt like it was underwater. Dead silent, and pressure of the masses weighing them down. Every sound was hollow. They would drown down here, and Mycroft Holmes, desperate for air, would do anything to live. The question was: Would Sherlock?

His eyes flew open, meeting Mycroft's.

"I thought you were dead."

A long pause.

"I am."

Mycroft gave a slow nod. He already knew. Either from Greg Lestrade or from eavesdropping from the other side of the door.

"I wouldn't usually come here myself. But I had to know if it was you, brother mine."

"Well, now you do. Feel free to leave anytime."

"We are _family_."

"Then you should have acted like one!" It just broke out of him. John thought he had seen Mycroft flinch ever so slightly at coming face to face with Sherlock's rage.

"There's no one else, Mycroft. Only you and me."

"That is exactly what-"

"Except it wasn't! Where were you, Mycroft? Where were you when our parents died? Where were you when I dropped out of university? When I almost killed myself? When I _died_? When were you ever there when I needed you?"

Mycroft blinked a little too often, swallowing something that was not really there.

Sherlock pointed at the group behind him. "These people are more of a family to me than you ever were. Except... maybe Anderson, but that's not the point." He shook his head.

The older Holmes looked over the faces of John, Lestrade, Mrs Hudson, Sally Donovan, Anderson and ... Wiggins? His eyes widened as he saw him. Wiggins waved him.

"The point is if you're asking yourself why I never came to you to let you know I was back, maybe you can answer that question for yourself."

Mycroft looked like he wanted to say something, but not a sound would come out. John could not tell if his eyes displayed the pain of Sherlock's words to him or if it was feeling any emotions at all that pained him.

"Sir." Anthea was holding a little device close to her ear. It looked a bit like a tiny trumpet. "It's General Midnight, Sir. They are ready."

At that, Mycroft's posture straightened. Duty called, blocking out any kind of sentiment he might feel. "Alright, this has been a lovely family reunion. If we could turn back to the important means of my visit, that would be very much preferable."

John and Sherlock exchanged a frown. He did not buy Mycroft Holmes, the Heartless. Not after seeing him and his sad pair of steely eyes. Not after seeing Iceman break under the iceberg.

 

"Her Majesty's knighthood is currently doing its best to prevent as many of them from breaking through the wall as they can. Dr Watson, I understand you were a part of the Order not long ago."

"Knight Captain, yes," John nodded.

"Then it will be of little difficulty for you to serve in that name again, will it not?" said Mycroft.

"Wait-" but John didn't get to finish.

"The General will send airships to localise their position and send Knight Soldiers from above if they have to. Furthermore, they need as many men capable of holding a firearm on the ground as they can get. That includes all of the attendants in this room. Inspector, your work here is done."

"Mr Holmes?" Lestrade asked in startled confusion.

"This is a war, inspector. The matter is outside of your division, and therefore out of your hands. Major Sholto of the Order will be in charge of this city in its current state of emergency as soon as he arrives."

At hearing that name, the voices around John became dull and distant. Now the water turned to him, crushing him beneath waves that made his heart skip a beat, skip another. Major Sholto.

_James_.

John had joined the knighthood with a fiancée, planning a marriage. He had left it without one, never to be married at all. The engagement had happened too fast, the bond too weak to bear the weight of his trauma. With her, he felt misunderstood in his sufferings. With him, she felt like she did not mean enough to be forever. She was right. They did not share what he shared with his comrades, did not feel the losses that brought John and them together. And nothing in the world had ever come close to what he shared with James Sholto.

A feeling that had evolved long before the man had saved his life. A feeling that was wrong, a feeling that he was wrong for feeling so right at being helpless. James saw that. He saw the way John looked at his face and did not see the scars but his eyes instead. After saving his life a final time, John had never seen him again.

"Mr Holmes," it broke out of John all of a sudden. He was awake again. In the here, in the now again. They quit their arguing to watch him as he came back to himself with anticipation.

"What about Ms Adler's plan?"

Irene's eyes widened in pleasant surprise.

As did Mycroft's, in more than less pleasant of a surprise. "That is not a plan, it is madness."

"Let the lady speak, Mycroft, I know you are not very good at that," Sherlock told him.

"Your suggestion, Mr Holmes," Irene began, slowly walking around him, "is to attack. I say doing so is a bad idea. I say … We wait. Ah!" she raised a finger between them to shut him up before he could object, "Hear me out. There is already a battle going on, and it is a battle between James Moriarty and his sister. Use that to your advantage! Wait to see who wins, who loses. Her vampyres or his army of cyborg corpses. Let them fight each other and strike when the winner is weakest."

"Absolutely not." He shook his head. "There is no control over all the innocent lives it will cost us to have a battle of two fronts play out in a capital that does not belong either of them."

John clenched hands to fists. "You will have much more to lose if you put that plan of yours into operation."

Mycroft seemed unimpressed. "It is already done. Ah, Inspector Lestrade. One last thing. Every officer of yours, everyone capable of holding a gun... Ready them. They are needed."

"Mr Holmes-" – "Mycroft!" Sherlock and John spoke with one tongue.

"Find your place, Dr Watson," Mycroft warned him sharply. "You swore an oath to Queen and Country once. I can see that my brother has the tendency to let one forget about one's duty, but I would strongly advise you to put a little more effort into remembering yours. Good day."

He turned to leave. Anthea walked past him to hold the door open. With his back turned towards them, he looked over his shoulder one last time.

"Sherlock?"

"I'm staying." Sherlock's tone left no room for objection.

Mycroft sighed. "I know. Just don't do anything stupid."

With that, he left the room. The water turned back into air again, and everyone took a deep breath.

What John heard Mycroft say was, _Don't you dare break my heart again_ , because that was what his last fight with Harry had translated to. And just like Harry, Sherlock couldn't hear what he heard. John's only hope was that Sherlock and Mycroft would not end like Harry and John.

"Holmes?" Lestrade said quietly.

Sherlock wasn't looking at him, still staring at the door. "You couldn't have considered mentioning that you invited my dearest brother over for a little surprise party, could you?"

"It was not like that, I swear it. But I must admit, I thought..."

"What?" He turned his head in Lestrade's direction. "Oh, you thought that I had told him, didn't you?"

"If you must know, yes, it did not occur to me you may not... not trust him enough to tell him."

"That is no business of yours." He looked around himself. They all looked tired to him. His body wasn't but his mind was feeling the same way for a very long time. "Come now. Go home, everyone."

Irene was the first to lose her composure. "No. Sherlock, no-"

But he spoke over her, loud and clear. "There is no arguing with him. He is the government. In times like these more than ever. There is nothing to be done here. It is over."

 

On their way out Sherlock and John did not say a word to each other. There was simply nothing to be said. They were walking the stairs up and out of the back door, leaving behind mouths that knew better than to argue and eyes that looked down on the ground in defeat. In that room, they were leaving behind the possibility of all of them meeting again, while ahead there lay the war. They may all find each other again on streets turned into a battlefield behind the trigger or bleeding out in the open. Sherlock might end up as property of the knighthood with someone studying him inside out or maybe used as a weapon himself. John hated even the briefest thought of it.

_We're so vulnerable when we have things to fight for, are we not?_

Last time he had found himself behind the trigger, he had wanted to die fighting. He would have been proud to die protecting his country or a comrade or even just to end a monster's life along with his own. But now? Now he had learned that there was so much more that he could have, so much more that he could do. So much more than dying.

Sherlock opened the door. The same back alley as last time. The fog made the prospect of daylight seem almost worthless. But before John could walk out of the door, Sherlock stopped and blocked the exit.

"Sherlock? Would you walk maybe?"

"What are you doing here?" He wasn't talking to John. Pushing past the detective, he ended up standing next to him, also stopping in his tracks.

Anthea was waiting for them, leaning against the wall of the building. She wore a little black hat but somehow managed to look at them from underneath it like the mysterious person she was to them.

"Where is Mycroft?" Sherlock asked. It was obvious he thought his brother was somehow behind this, and John could not say he didn't have the same thought.

She didn't answer the question but instead pulled an envelope out of the pocket inside her jacket with gloved fingers. To his own genuine surprise, she came a few steps closer and gave the envelope... to him.

"He wants to speak with you," she said.

She just left them to these words and walked away to the fading sound of her heels. At first, John was angry. He thought this was about him and Mycroft. He thought this was about him keeping his distance from Sherlock. Then he opened the envelope.

_From J.S. to J.W._

"What does my brother want from you?"

"It's..." It felt so long ago that he had dared to say his name. "It's from Major Sholto."

Sherlock's head turned sharply. Could he deduce what this meant for John? All of it?

"We should go," said John. "Now."

 


	16. The Courageous Knight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At the request of Major James Sholto, John and Sherlock set off to meet him. But John and Sholto's reunion is by far not as long as he would have wanted it to be.

They walked all the way to Buckingham Palace. John was nervous. Although several people assured him that the danger only existed at night, he never stopped feeling his gun resting in its holster. The cabs on the street were almost as rare as the people, and they both wanted a walk. Sherlock was restless. He needed a clear mind but it wouldn't come.

The ground between the Palace and St. James's Park had never been so empty. Knowing that the Queen was probably out of the country by now made this city feel all the more left. Left behind to succumb. Left to fall. The gate to Wellington Barracks was guarded by two men in uniforms but they were not men that usually stood guard. They wore uniforms that took John less than a second to recognise. He had once worn them himself.

"Identity?" one of the men asked.

"Knight Captain John Watson, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers and former servant of the Queen and Country's Order." Yes, he had that one memorised.

The two men on the other side gave each other a quick glance before John was being addressed again.

"Status?"

John raised his chin. "Vatican Cameos."

They opened the gate without hesitation.

"You are being expected, Captain," they told him as John and Sherlock were led through the gate and across the yard.

Being addressed by this title again felt like slipping back into an old pair of shoes. You remember wearing them so very often they were defining you in more ways that you would like to admit. Now they represent that part of you and you are forced to wonder: Do they still fit? Or have I outgrown them?

John shot Sherlock a look. The detective looked back at him with an interest in his eyes he had yet to understand. He was not used to being the one who walks after someone else's command, was that it? Or maybe he could acknowledge that old pair of shoes on a new man and found they still fitted him fairly well.

The ceilings within the building were high. The room in which they were asked to wait was clad in red wood and not much else. A man in uniform either guarded whatever lay behind the big double doors they were looking at or he was guarding them. After a good minute, one of the man's hands emerged from behind his back and closed around the door handle.

"Dr Watson, you may go through now."

John stood before the man had finished but when it came to walking, he was slower. One deep breath, in and out. He was ready. Sherlock was right behind him, but the guard stopped the detective

"Dr Watson _only_."

John and Sherlock exchanged a glance. John nodded, assuring him it would be fine. Sherlock pressed his lips together, telling him he wasn't happy about this but he would comply if he must.

Seconds after, John was heading through the big doors. Alone.

 

It looked like the inside of a church. Maybe it was. Maybe they did pray here. Seating rows to the left and right made of red wood, ceiling high and adorned with paintings of angels. The windows wore colourful patterns that the sunlight threw across the tiles. At the end of the room, one man stood tall, watching Jesus Christ on his cross as if it were only a matter of time that he would free himself and come back to life.

John took one hesitant step before the other and they echoed from the walls. The other man, hands behind his back, turned. John's breath caught in his throat. He'd never thought he would see him again. Never get to appreciate the tragic near death experience that struck his face in the form of a scar through which beautiful eyes shone and hit John's own.

"Watson."

The last time he had heard him say his name, he had screamed it with an air of desperation on the battleground. The last time he had heard him say it as gently as today had been in a dream.

"Major." He saluted.

There were a strange five metres of distance between them. No one moved. Sholto's sharp intake of breath signalled the world that it could spin again, the clocks could tick again and with them, a conversation that should never take place was just beginning.

He came closer, and slowly. "I never thought our roads would ever cross again."

John shook his head. "No, neither did I. Even less under such circumstances as the present."

Major Sholto let his eyes drop to the floor.

"How could this happen?" John wondered out loud. "With everything we sacrificed."

"And yet here we are."

"Here we are," John repeated after him to confirm it for himself. Was this what the world gave you when it received your complaint about your dull life?

"You know, Watson..." Sholto took a deep breath. "When word reached me that you had indeed survived, I was filled with great relief. I knew you would be taken out of duty, and I was glad for it."

John blinked up at him, forcing himself to take in the words he was saying and to recognise the reality of him being here, with Sholto, after all this time.

“I was glad for I thought you could have a life safe from this war. I thought our roads would never again cross because I assumed myself would fall in battle and you would settle down with... with someone you love."

John gave him a tense smile. That hurt. Hearing him say out loud what he thought would happen to them like it was written in stone. In that case, he thought, to the Major it should be a disappointment to see him again. Not knowing what to say, John looked around like there was something else to be found here. Arms behind his back, he stared at the windows.

"This is everything we were trying to prevend from happening," he stated quietly.

"There are things in life, Watson, that cannot be prevented. All we can try is delay them for a while. But their outcome is always..."

"Inevitable," John finished for him. His heart was in his throat and it was aching. Made it hard to breathe. "James." He allowed himself that name. He allowed himself to come closer to the man who had once meant the world to him. Suffering the loss of everyone you love … Oh, it can make you crave the truth. The truth in your mouth and in their eyes. "You and I-"

James quickly put a hand on his shoulder. Warm.

"Say no more. We both know..." His eyes were glued to his own hand on John's shoulder travelling to the side of his neck. "We saw the world burn, you and I. But through two pairs of eyes I must admit the flames never seemed to rise as high as they do now."

John dared to close his eyes. The touch rose the hairs on the back of his neck and he gave in to this feeling. In all their years of unspoken adoration and keeping each other warm with barely any contact, they had never shared much of each other. Knights did not embrace. It was too late for them now. They both knew it was too late.

"You think this way of fighting will get us anywhere near a solution?" he asked with eyes still closed.

"I think that there are no good battles and there is no good way of fighting. But I think there are good people. You... _John_. You are good. You are so... courageous. You and your detective will keep London from falling. Of that I am certain."

John blinked his eyes open, blinking back tears. His heart would only let him cry so very rarely.

"I have never lost my trust in you. There would be no good in me if I did so now." He smiled.

And now John smiled, weakly.

"James..."

The sound of breaking glass echoed in his ears. Sholto pressed the palm of his hand against the side of his neck. John's body reacted faster than his head did. A shot through the window, a crack in the colours. John's gun was in his hand and he shot back, hearing a scream from the other side that confirmed the hit. The cracks ran across the panes and multiplied over the painting made of glass like a spider's web made of chaos until the structure inevitably collapsed and the shards tumbled over the tiles.

A door flew open on the other side of the room.

"Major!" Someone shouted commands and more shots were fired.

James Sholto's hand sank down John's shoulder, trying to hold onto him but not finding the strength to keep himself up. His eyes were blown wide open and the only sound he made was a gurgle as his own blood ran out of his mouth.

John's head was drained of everything, every thought until only a single one remained.

" _No_."

His eyes screamed of desperation as he slowly sank down with him, holding him until they were both on the floor. He pressed his hand over James's to stop the bleeding and watched out of helpless eyes as James tried to breathe through the blood that drowned him.

Sherlock was behind him, shooting another vampyre that was trying to enter through the broken window. There were shots all around him as the woman who had just burst through the door and her troop of ten knights kept shooting the creatures.

Sholto still tried to smile, so oblivious to it anything that wasn't John. John shook his head.

"Now our... fates have... reversed," he choked out.

Once more he heard his voice in his head, as he had in so many nightmares, crying out his name when it had been his time of bleeding out beneath him. John, shaking with anger and sorrow, ripped one of the buttons from his shirt in his attempt to bring to light the necklace he had worn day and night since it was given to him. The metal read in its engraving the name of the man dying in his arms.

James grasped the dogtag with the last remaining strength and huffed a laugh. John, despite it being the last thing he felt like doing, joined him, smiling. He wrapped his hand around James's and they both kept hanging onto the warm metal.

"Nor did I ever lose my trust in _you_ ," he whispered.

 

_"He made it through."_

_His heart had finally begun to pump again as he heard the news. Yet it felt heavy in his chest now that he was standing outside of John Watson's medical tent. That he was still alive and had, for some miraculous reason, not turned into one of them should have made his face wet with tears of relief. But instead, he was still feeling the pain of a loss that never was. The pain of separation. Not by death but by duty._

_He would be sent back to London. They would not see each other again. He rarely allowed himself to think in ways so selfish. Watson was alive. That was all that should have mattered._

_James Sholto slipped through the entrance of the tent and into the darkness. The form of the sleeping man on the other side made his whole body ache with a complexity of emotions. It was a feeling most unknown to him and yet there was such clarity to what he felt. Even in the dim light, the knight captain looked pale as the death he had only just overcome._

_"Oh, Watson."_

_He left the tent feeling lighter. Uncertain yet if lighter meant that he felt better or just that his heart wasn't as heavy as it had been. All he knew was that he had left a part of himself back in that tent. On the little table next to the glass of water. It was only steel and scratches but it felt like so much more to be leaving behind. Even if they had never had each other, John could have a memory of him. Of his battles and his losses._

_It would survive for him when Sholto didn't._

 

Blood pressed through their intertwined fingers as John tried to stop the bleeding with him. He was choking and coughing sprinkles of red. His body was jerking uncontrollably. He still held his hand with the necklace and had again the audacity to smile. John cursed himself for not returning it but he could not, just could not bring his face to betray the depths of sadness he was drowning in. James dropped the hand keeping him from bleeding out and the floor embraced the flow as it pooled around him.

"This is... h-how... I wish... t-to go."

"No," John begged him under his breath. "No, no, no. No, don't. Don't. _James_."

James's other hand slipped away beneath his own. His body went stiller and stiller until it was moving no more. He was feeling dirty from all the blood on his hands. Empty because none of it was his own. Because he was still here, left alone to feel the warmth of a body that would only get colder. A body whose soul had left behind somebody too young to die.

Slowly, he rose his head. The General and her men pointed their guns in his direction. Turning around, he saw that Sherlock's gun was pointing at... him.

John was unable to form even one coherent thought.

"He's a cyborg," the General realised.

Sherlock's eyes were empty and, for the first time, truly cold.

"Out of my war, Sherlock." Sherlock spoke how he had never heard him speak before. It sounded just like one particular criminal mastermind. In the next moment, he pressed his palm against his temple. "Out of my head!"

"Do not fire!" she told her men.

The blasting noise of a gunshot resonated in John's ears. Sherlock had fired a shot. One of the General's men fell to the ground, revealing through the zipping wires in his head that he was a cyborg, about to shoot the General herself! Another shot echoed from the high ceiling and Sherlock clutched his arm.

"Sherlock," John breathed.

"To the roof!" the General cried.

More glass was breaking as a group of vampyres came jumping through the window.

"John, get up!"

John was pulled from the limbs of his dead major by Sherlock with one arm. His mind could not grasp it. He could not understand the danger they were facing. Sherlock pulled on him and somehow his body cooperated, wobbly legs and longing arms reaching for the one on the ground. _Man down_. Shots were fired, becoming the drums in an orchestra of high screaming, vicious snarls and bones cracking as the bullets hit.

John did not look back. He didn't have to. His eyes were blind, and before him, he saw the past. One thought reached him distantly, and it was that without Sherlock's steady hand he would have collapsed then and there.

 

Running up the stairs, the world spun and narrowed to the size of the spiralling staircase. Not all of them made it to the roof but the General was the first, looking around her with controlled panic. And there it was, waiting. Looking like a massive warship made for the Seven Seas, it was strung to a giant zeppelin. It lowered until the ladder made of rope was touching the roof like a lowering anchor.

"Up, up, up!" she commanded, and there was no hesitation following that order. They climbed up the rungs one after the other like there was no tomorrow. Maybe there wasn't.

John was the last one to go, giving the General a _'lady's first'_ she took the time to roll her eyes at. The airship took off when he was still on the ladder, giving him the opportunity of taking a look back. The vampyres had taken over the roof and looked after them with bared teeth. They were clothed in black, but in the midst of them, one was smiling. Raising her head slowly beneath the hood, she revealed long black hair and a deer's pair of eyes. In her hand, Janine held a gun like a huntress. The wolf in sheep's clothes.

She had killed James.

Janine raised her head further and her gun with it. She pointed it right between his eyes. John didn't move, simply kept staring back. _Peng_.

"John!"

Sherlock pulled him up before the bullet missed him by roughly an inch. The hatch closed with a loud noise and suddenly John was lying flat on the floor with Sherlock sitting next to him. He rolled on his back, arms stretched as far from his body as he could. His limbs didn't feel like they belonged to him. He closed his eyes, trying to breathe.

"Janine," he said to the silence.

"Eurus," Sherlock corrected.

"Whatever."

He knew Sherlock was watching him. He could feel his gaze piercing him. Maybe he was expecting him to cry. Oh, and how badly John wanted to cry.

"John, I am so sorry-"

"Yes," he caught him off. “Me too … Me too."

 

The General's men led them through the lower section of the ship until they arrived in the middle of the ship; a big room with its left and right wall entirely made of glass panes. John's eyes hurt from being exposed to the bright light from all sides after having walked through the rather dark halls. On both sides, there were spiral staircases and in the centre, there was a large oval table. At the head of it sat no other than Mycroft Holmes.

"Brother mine," he said to Sherlock, but he was looking a little too devastated to sound cocky.

Sherlock's face displayed no emotion. John's did so all the more. He was certain that every single thought of his must have shown on his face, and he didn't care.

"Dr Watson, I am-"

"Leave it. Just... leave it. There is only so much that is holding me back from ripping your head off and kicking it from this ship."

"Oh, please do," Sherlock said calmly.

"I understand that you have reason to be angry-"

"Do you?" John was walking towards him until he could slam his flat hand on the tabletop right under his nose. "People died today. Good people. Why did they have to come here when we could have waited? Why send them to Wellington Barracks – _of all places!_ – where they would seek them out and be lucky to find them?"

"Do not let your emotions cloud your judgement, Dr Watson. Wellington Barracks is a military basis-"

"Oh, but my emotions, Mr Holmes? Believe it or not, my emotions are the only thing right now saving you from actually getting your head kicked into the Thames. Those people died because of you. Because of you alone. Don't think a cyborg army would not have you killed for a mistake such as this. It'd be _logical_."

"Captain!" The General called for him, probably mostly to get him out of Mycroft's face.

Now that they were not running for their lives, he was given the luxury to look at her properly. She was older, her hair pulled back and turned fully grey, but she was still a very agile woman. Her left eye was covered by a leather eyepatch and a scar poking through beneath it, and her dark green uniform did not appear to be made for a fighter but for a leader instead.

"Allow me to introduce myself, Captain Watson. The Major had already made yourself known to me. I am General Elizabeth Midnight."

Elizabeth? There was something so familiar about her face.

"Elizabeth Midnight? Like ... Lieutenant Elizabeth Smallwood?"

She was quite the legend. Making it back from a suicide mission by figuring out the real location of the enemy, she had then outranked her previous officer that had despised her for no other reason than being a woman. John's excitement over her being a general now and him having the privilege of meeting her was unfortunately dimmed by the circumstances.

"Formerly," she said. "A long time ago."

John nodded in silent acknowledgement. The past was the past. He himself needed to learn this once more now. The past is much more than a fragment of ourselves but sometimes it had to be left behind in order to see a future.

"They are taking the ground now," John more stated than asked.

The General nodded with repressed frustration.

"Where are they, Mycroft?" Sherlock took a step forward and looked at his brother. "Lestrade, Donovan and the others. Are they alright?"

"They are-" Mycroft began but was interrupted by a heavy shake that left everyone on the ships to wobbly legs before it stabilised again.

"Impatient little brother," Mycroft then declared in self-satisfaction. "There they are already."

Sherlock and John turned their heads around to look out of the window panes. Another huge ship had docked! Even though the process of that could have been a gentler one. The boys quickly walked up the stairs and rushed out, and for a moment John was so taken aback by finding himself in the clouds, breathing the air that was so fresh and thin as they were so far up in the sky. From so close a distance, the other airship was gigantic. A bridge was being lowered to connect to their own ship. Only a few minutes later, a man with grey hair and tanned skin was stepping out to cross it, and behind him all the people Sherlock had denoted family. Oh, and Anderson.

Lestrade was leading a nauseous looking Molly Hooper over the passage by her hand. He looked protective, like a leader. John was more than glad to see them alive and well. Sherlock and he made their way down, and when Molly's eyes caught Sherlock's form, she ran for it. This time their hug was both-sided and earnest.

"I'm so glad to see you," Molly mumbled into his shoulder and he thought he had seen a twitch of a smile around Sherlock's mouth.

"We helped them rescue everyone we could," said Lestrade.

"What happens now?" Sally Donovan stepped into their circle and asked the question that was going through everyone's head.

John saw James Sholto before him again. It happened to him from time to time, just out of the blue. The blue, blue sorrow that spread over his lungs and made it hard to breathe.

"We seek Moriarty and his lunatic sister out of their fucking hiding places," he announced. "We end all of this." He was so, so tired of losing loved ones.

Donovan raised her brow and crossed her arms. "And how the hell are we supposed to do that?"

"Simple. By killing them all."

 

***

 

They were finding themselves in the glass pane belly of the ship again, standing around the main table made of maple wood. The lamps around the room cast their faces in warm yellow light but the atmosphere was rather a mild one. Lestrade had acted quickly when the attacks had started shortly after their meeting at Scotland Yard, securing citizens and commanding his officers to do the same as quickly as possible. Furthermore, he had rushed to his house and taken Molly with him before the second airship was able to take them all on board.

"There is no other way," the General said. "Let's raise a last glass. For the world as we know it will change when the sun sets by tomorrow." They raised their glasses of golden liquor. "To our troops."

"To England," said Mycroft.

"To the mutual hope of a new dawn," said Molly.

"To humanity," said Lestrade.

Now would be Sherlock's turn. He was not even there with them, was somewhere deep down in his own thoughts. He stood by the window with hands behind his back. One of the mechanics on the ship had promised to help him repair the part of his arm that had been shot at by an overprotective knight back at the barracks. Until then, it was moving a little stiffly but he was trying to play it off. Sacrificing his body to another that was also vulnerable must have hurt his pride more than anything else.

There was no desire to toast to anything in Sherlock. John looked over his shoulder to watch him for a minute before his eyes fell back upon his own hand holding the glass. He felt as though a whole yesterday was in that glass and he was just outside of it.

"To Major Sholto."

The room nodded in silent grief. Then they gulped it all down.

"Rest well, everyone." General Midnight broke the silence. "Tomorrow will be a long long day."

 

The lights were burning dimly in the night's sky above the city. Both airships had lit several little oil lamps from one end to the other. It made the world up here feel warmer despite the cold moonlight meeting the grounds of the ship earlier than the streets below. Most of the attendants of both ships were fast asleep in the ship's belly, and even the screams of madness from down below faded with the wind. Only one of them was wide awake. John found him leaning over the railing, dark curls against pale skin, the sharp angles of his face softened by the light coming from the oil lamp in his hand.

John joined him wordlessly. He let his arms hang over the railing and tried to see what he saw. At the same time, John saw for himself the horror of a war he could not possibly witness from so far up. But he saw them still, just in his mind's eye. Saw lives ending in brutality, the innocent people who weren't here with them killed or sucked dry in their sleep. Saw James bleeding out in his arms.

"What are we doing?" he wondered aloud.

"The right thing, one would hope," Sherlock whispered back to him.

"How can the right thing feel so wrong? Make you feel like you are fighting for something that is long lost before it can ever be won? That whatever there is left to be won now is not worth any of it at all?"

Sherlock turned his head to look him in the eye. A soft breeze shoving the thin layer of clouds beneath the ship like waves on top of the ocean.

"We will lose so many of us." John had already lost the tone in his voice. "Somehow I don't mind putting this thought to rest and accepting it as truth. But the thought of losing you … It has become unbearable to me."

Sherlock's mouth had become a thin line like he was forcing himself to keep from bursting. In the end, he just gave him a sharp nod and turned to the moon, closing his eyes. John imagined he had never before heard words that came close to how much John cared about him. His heart was aching at the thought but it also jumped with delight at being the first to give this to him now. Whatever this misunderstood little boy in there might need for him, John was ready to do it. Even if doing it meant dying with it.

"Do you want to talk about what happened to you back there?" He was talking about Moriarty having found a way into Sherlock's mind.

Sherlock took his time to respond. "Don't worry. It will not happen again."

"I wasn't worried. Not about you turning on me. I was just worried about... you."

He gave a slow nod, hesitating, or calculating the odds of John telling the truth.

He knew that Sherlock was not an easy man to convince, so he took one of his hands. They were cold tonight. He let his one arm hang over the railing again, but the hand that held Sherlock's he took with him to lay on top of the wooden surface. He watched as Sherlock's thumb stroke over his skin, his bigger hand in John's smaller one. A part of him wished that someone else would be awake and see them. How their fingers were intertwined under the moonlight. And even though he had never much cared about them, he wished that whatever god was watching right now, they may smile at the sight of the very unlikely bond between those two men.

 

***

 

"Steam grenades?"

"Complete."

"Colts?"

"Yes, Ma'am."

"Rifles?"

General Midnight was running through the list of weaponry in preparation of tonight's battle. The dark was to the vampyre's advantage but they could simply not afford to sacrifice more innocent lives to another night passing. If they were lucky enough, they could at least strike before nightfall. Despite the dangerous promise of death and spilling blood, of seeing their own people fall, John could not deny the energy that this promise was feeding to him. He felt it around him even now, just watching the knights turning at every command, carrying their weapons from here to there.

Behind him, he could hear Donovan and when he looked over his shoulder, he saw her talking to another higher ranking knight, discussing battle plans. He had no idea how she ever got here, became a police officer in this time and place and had her talents be recognised enough to do undercover work and picked up useful knowledge of military operations somewhere on the way, but they should be more than glad to have her on their side in a time such as this.

Meanwhile, Sherlock Holmes was still playing the lone wolf, appearing to be daydreaming somewhere in the corner where no one would pay any attention to him. Only John knew better than to assume his thoughts had anything to do with dreaming at all. He walked up to him only to be ignored. Not like he had expected anything else.

"I wonder," he stated, counting on Sherlock's curiosity to get the better of him and ask him to specify. When he didn't, he turned his head and counted the clouds in the sky. It was a blue day and the sun was shining. Not many clouds to count. One could be led to think they had all made a home in Sherlock's mind. He tried again.

"I wonder what might be running through your clever head that prevents you from walking around and telling everyone what they're doing wrong."

"I am almost tempted to applaud you, Doctor." He sounded unimpressed.

If this was the game he wanted to play, it was now John's turn to ask. "What for?"

"For holding yourself back from asking that exact question for over eight hours and twenty-five minutes now," he explained, referring to their little hour under the moonlight.

"So counting the minutes. That's what you're doing in your free time. Who would have thought?"

"Funny." Sherlock did not sound amused.

"Really?"

Sherlock raised a brow and shrugged. "A little." Now even he could not repress a smile and John, obviously, joined in.

"I want to apologise."

"Apologise?" John looked at him with a frown. Sherlock was not an apologetic person, even if there was something to be sorry for. But this one came just out of the blue for him.

"For what happened back at Wellington Barracks."

John sucked a sharp breath through his teeth. There it was again, a sting of pain. Sholto dead in his arms. He shook his head. _Back to the present._

"You make it sound as though it was you who is at fault here."

"Yes," he said. "This is what it feels like, to me."

Somehow, this hurt more than anything he could have said. John was breathless. "Why?"

Finally, Sherlock turned to him and he could see his eyes. Could see how the blue sky resembled his eyes and how all the missing clouds from the sky were hiding behind them. He thought that, if he had the ability, his eyes would be filled with tears. That this was what it would look like if he were about to cry. Yes. It hurt him more than words ever could.

"Sherlock, no-"

"I pulled you all into my mess."

"Don't-"

"It's like Anderson said, this is just one psychopath wanting to impress another and everybody around them suffers from those consequences."

John shook his head in a desperate laugh. "Now listen to you. The Sherlock Holmes that I know would never even consider agreeing with Anderson."

At this, Sherlock huffed a laugh too, but there was no humour in it. "The Sherlock Holmes you know … You still believe that to be true."

"Yes!" In an act of desperation, John took one of Sherlock's hands, the good one, and he could not help but feel proud at surprising the detective. Sherlock looked at him with widened eyes but made no move to escape his grip. "I believe in you. I believe that I know you, genuinely, and that what you have shown to me was real. You feel so real to me, Sherlock Holmes. I wouldn't care if the whole world despised you and told me to keep my distance."

There was a long pause between them. Sherlock's widened eyes narrowed and he was searching John's face, first in confusion, then in curiosity. "Yes," he said slowly. "I feared so."

"Feared what?" John whispered.

"That you might mean it."

Before John was given the chance to respond, Sally Donovan called for him.

"Dr Watson! Your expertise is needed!"

Sherlock smiled at that but not without a twinge of sadness in his eyes. "Looks like I am not the only one in need of you."

John was still breathing in the wind that struck his face, hoping it may clear his head enough to say something useful. He was sure the look he gave him was one that a man would give a supernova far out on the night's sky – awestruck, marvelling and terrified – and he was so lost for words to describe what he was feeling. There was so much he was seeing in him. So much beauty and hope and _good_.

"I love you."

His mouth uttered the three words before his common sense caught up, but now that they were out there, he never wanted to take them back. It felt so right to him to say it. He wanted to hear himself say them again, knowing Sherlock could hear him. His body shivered at the thought.

Sherlock blinked, a lot, and he mouthed a word or sentence that had no sound because his voice was stuck in his throat. John slowly, slowly let his hand slide out of his own and stepped away from him. He had been called for. They would both be fine, for now.

After all, Sherlock's head was full of clouds.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I should talk to you more, tell you a bit more about what's happening. So, as you might have noticed, I'm struggling a little to bring this monster of a fic to an end. (I know it's not immensely long but it's not exactly short either.) Believe me, I've got it all planned out from here on. We're close. Does it feel like we're close? 'Cause I feel like it took me very long to set this story off and form a ground for the main plot, and yes, blabla I'm rambling. Just saying that this fanfiction has been with me for over one and a half years now and I've learned a lot from it and would change stuff if I started again now. Which I'm definitely not gonna do, ha..hah. Nope.
> 
> Ehm, yeah, so you can talk to me, I'm always happy to talk to you!


	17. The Heart of Lazarus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is no turning back now. This is war.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot believe that after aaaall this time and the struggles I had with this fic, we've come to an end now. This is officially the last chapter before the final epilogue. Thank you to everyone who bore with me. I know WIPs can be hard to follow, I know updates have taken their time. I'm just glad I kicked my ass enough to actually go through with this, bring my ideas to empty document pages and let them grow. That's the biggest challenge and best advice for becoming better at writing. Kick your own ass and do it even when it's hard! But don't be too hard on yourself when you can't bring yourself to do it one day either. See, that's some advice I should take more often!
> 
> Enough said, enjoy this wild ride. Feel free to comment or send in your complaints to my non-existent secretary. Thanks again!

The armour and the boots fitted him like he had never taken them off. The buttons blinked from his chest when the light hit them, the deep colours from his badge went well with the dark green of the uniform. It was not his own, the armour, of course not, but it felt like it could have been. Shining subtly in a bronze-like gold, the shoulder patches snug around him like a second skin or the shell of a strong animal. The weight was just right, as heavy as he remembered it from standing patrol, running, fighting with his troops behind the wall. The broad metal belt clicked into place as he secured it around his waist. _Well then._ He looked at himself in the mirror. _Into battle._

 

"Go, go, go!"

His voice was on the verge of hysteria. He rarely ever saw him like this anymore – consumed by sentiment – because he rarely ever saw him at all.

The sunset was near and the sky burned with the giant fireball on the horizon tinting the clouds their ship was flying through. Sherlock's backside was the one dark spot in the room. His hands were pulling on his curls where he sat at the round table of the conference room with the many window panes they had stood in just yesterday night, and he briefly wondered if he had moved at all since then. Mycroft looked around the room and found a pipe, probably thrown into the corner, and he bent down to pick it up.

"Yes," Sherlock told him. He hadn't looked up nor made a move. "Enjoy the little pleasures of life while I cannot."

Mycroft raised his brow and put the pipe down on the table. "Always this predilection for the dramatic. Have you tried smoking this?"

" _Tried_ is quite the accurate expression."

"You are going to destroy yourself. Again."

Sherlock finally raised his head out of his hands. "What are you doing here, Mycroft? I am fairly certain my reaction towards your entering should have told you to stick your fat nose into someone else's-"

"Language, little brother."

Sherlock rolled his eyes but nodded. Many things had ceased to make sense these days, so why shouldn't his language?

"What do you want then?"

"Clarity," Mycroft answered so eloquently that he must have held this dialogue in his head beforehand. Sherlock always assumed that was how the man won all of his arguments.

"Of what?"

"Between the two of us."

Sherlock still sat there staring ahead at a fixed point on the other side of the room and Mycroft stood next to him, his hands on his umbrella that he usually didn't use for anything else.

"I'd say the two of us are very clear."

"I am sorry you think so."

"Are you?"

"Yes." Mycroft's eyes softened in silent pain, and hence lost some of their judgement. He finally sat down on the chair next to Sherlock, placing his umbrella on the table like a weapon he needed easy access to. "I am sorry."

Sherlock eventually, finally, looked up at him. He searched his face with suspicion.

"I am sorry I lost you," Mycroft said.

They each took a moment to themselves. Genuine conversations like this one … They didn't happen to them.

"Is this what you think happened?" Sherlock asked, his tone less sharp.

"I think what happened is that witnessing people around you losing has made you fearful of owning anything yourself."

Sherlock's eyes dropped down and he was studying the table's surface absently. "Funny," he said, not amused at all. "I think that the idea that you have implanted in me has broken me. Never to care about anything at all. I was taught to be this way since I was a child. Now the inside matches the outside."  _Heartless_.

"This was never meant to break you, it was meant to protect you."

He huffed a laugh. "Protect me? How would you even know what that is like?"

"I know because-" Mycroft took his hand in his own and demanded with his eyes that he looked at him. "You mean the whole world to me, Sherlock. And your loss broke my heart."

Sherlock blinked, and if he could have, there might have been tears to be blinked away. Quickly, he pulled his hand back. "Why are we doing this now?"

"Because if you go down there, brother mine, I need you to be focused. That is your only chance of protecting the ones you love. I need you to defeat our enemies."

"So that's what this is about? Always the manipulating-"

"Sherlock, listen to me! I know this is difficult for you. I know it is my fault that it is difficult. But I was wrong."

Sherlock could not believe what he was hearing. "Say that again."

Mycroft closed his eyes to keep himself from rolling them. "I was wrong," he whispered. "Caring might be to your advantage. And that soldier fellow of yours … He might just save the both of you."

"Why now?" he breathed.

Mycroft avoided his eyes. It was difficult. Those blue eyes were not the same of his innocent baby brother. And yet ... "I want you to be happy. I know that you are worried that losing him will hurt you too much to bear it. But I want you to try to keep him. Be better than myself."

Sherlock was still eyeing him suspiciously. He could not know for certain if this was the manipulation of Mr Holmes, the man whose highest priorities were to save his country whatever the costs, or just the truthful words of Mycroft, laying his heart bare for the first time. It was hard to tell because he wouldn't know how that looked like. He wouldn't know.

"Okay," Sherlock whispered. He wanted to be better. He wanted to save John and everyone else.

"Don't try to get through this alone. You don't have to."

With this, Mycroft patted his hand and rose from the chair. Sherlock looked after him as he left the room. Suddenly, it was colder. He could not feel it, but he knew.

 

When John turned around to look over his shoulder, the undergoing sun touched his face. The detective was just behind him. The orange light was setting a glowing frame around his silhouette. This was it. The earth had spun because time did not stop for anything, and now the sun was merely an eclipse, cut off by the horizon, dipping the clouds in many colours, reaching from soft cinnabar red over lilac and purple to midnight blue. Sherlock gave him a quick nod like he was the one in charge. He was not, not this time. They were all waiting. Waiting for Midnight's signal.

Looking ahead, the buildings beneath were already throwing large shadows that turned alleys into dangerous places. He could see the House of Parliament from here, the Big Ben and farther in the distance lay Buckingham Palace. He had looked in that direction several times. The place Sholto had died. If not for their victory, then what the hell had it all been for?

When the signal came, a sharp whistle above the clouds, his head was wiped empty. Old soldier mechanism. He was back again, one of them again. Men and women just like him, willing to lose their lives tonight and leave this world to become a better one. They left the ship in rows. Those in the front did not even blink before they jumped down, down into the unknown. Next row. Jumping down like a performative act, rehearsed a thousand times before. Next row. Next turn to jump. Up the railing and down, ripping the clouds apart. Now it was John's turn. He had no problem with height but for some reason, his head would not shut up about it. Left and right to him they were stepping up onto the railing. His feet wouldn't move.

"Come on, get it together," he muttered under his breath.

Then there was a hand in his. Sherlock, who was supposed to be behind him, was now stepping onto the railing with him, and John could only take one last glance at him before he felt the ground pulled from him. Sherlock was looking straight ahead but his eyes were closed like nothing else existed around him. Like this was peace. He did not jump from the ship so much as simply let himself fall, arms wide open and coat flying behind him, and he pulled John with him by the hand he held so tightly.

It reminded him of the first little adventure they had had together, back at Irene's house when they had broken through her bedroom window. He had not gotten a chance to look at him back then since the second floor was not nearly as high as a steam-powered airship over the clouds. But now he took advantage of this last moment of quiet as they were falling through the sky. John was protected by his armour, but Sherlock did not need any of that. He was just falling backwards, body limb and his curls loose and his coat fluttering beneath him like angel's wings. He was embracing death, John realised. They could end it here and now, together, was another thought that briefly came to mind. He took hold of him and pulled the cord of his parachute. The falling came to a halt. Now they were _flying_.

They landed near Piccadilly Circus, not far from their troop (because John actually knew how to use a parachute and land it properly) and he cut the rope and took off the backpack. For a moment, there was quiet. He looked around, missing London despite being in the centre of it. Missing Sherlock like he wasn't standing next to him. The quiet didn't last long. Now came the storm. First, almost innocently from behind the houses. Distant noises that made hairs stand on end, like bones cracking and teeth clutching, heavy breathing and footsteps echoing from the walls. The first bullet was fired, the first head met with the stone pavement. This was only the beginning.

But the shots died quickly. The city took back the silence and the howling of the wind. It wasn't right. The feeling crept up and under John's skin. Something wasn't right at all.

"Sherlock," he ordered and he was always there with him, "Back on back."

John was facing the one side of the street and Sherlock the other. The hard grip of his gun, steadily held and ready in both his hands, and Sherlock's back pressed against him gave him the slightest comfort of security but was still overshadowed by instinctive suspicion. It was less of a suspicion and more of a deeply rooted knowledge that something bad was just about to come upon them.

The sound of hollow metal hitting stone turned their heads to the left and to the right but they were coming from above them, little capsules falling down around them. They made a hissing noise when they hit the ground and opened. John's ears were trained for those noises.

"Smoke bombs," he whispered under his breath before only the seconds later the thick smoke clouds were billowing out, quickly climbing up the walls and spreading across the whole alley.

Sherlock scrunched his nose and sniffed the air. John did so involuntarily and coughed.

"It's poisonous," he said.

"Shit. Get away from the smoke!" John yelled.

More of their troop fell to the poison smoke and threw their arms over their faces. The first coughed so heavily that they sank to the ground. They needed to get out of there! John ran to lead the way until they arrived around the fountain at Piccadilly Circus.

"Turtle formation!"

More and more knights came running, fleeing out of the street that was now fully covered in a grey fog glistening in the blue moonlight. They positioned around the statue of Cupid, grabbed the shields from their backs and placed them above their heads. The more that came the bigger the circle grew, with Cupid and his bow at the centre. Screams filled the space between them and the smoke, bestial and furious. The smoke had reached the rooftops. Vampyres jumped out of the clouds and ran towards them like they were coming out of nowhere.

"This is exactly how they wanted us," Sherlock growled. _A trap._

"No turning back now."

The first creature fell with a shot, then the second and the third. But the more they killed, the more came out of the smoke clouds, and they were fast. They fired back but the knight's shields held the bullets. One had made its way to them and John drew his sword before the claws could meet his ribs. The vampyre's head landed in the dirt. The blood landed on John. Sherlock fired some headshots but they were rushing forward one after, climbing over the corpses of their own kind to get to them.

"Where are the others?" John shouted.

"They are certainly taking their time!" Sherlock was attacked from both sides and shoved the one from him while the other was trying to bite his neck before realising he hit a bunch of wires. He shot the first one in the face and met the other with his elbow and John kicked his feet away and his sword pierced the heart as the vampyre lay flat on the stones. Ten others followed one dead beast, and even though one knight fell after twenty vampyres had fallen before them, it wasn't looking too good.

They shot back and bit back and knights around them were dying and screaming. Slowly, Piccadilly Circus filled with blood. Even the fountain water couldn't wash it away.

But in the distance, John heard another sound, over the cries and gun shots that echoed through the night. The sound of hooves clopping. _Finally!_

With a neigh, the snout of a horse broke the fog and General Midnight swung her cleaver with an air of vengeance. More knights riding on horses followed her lead and cleared the scene. Heads fell and the dark blood painted the fur of the horses. She raised her heavy steel and slaughtered a creature before it could jump on Sherlock's back and her horse lunged out to kick another in the guts.

John couldn't have been more impressed. "That's Silverblaze," he said. "The General's horse. I've read about it."

"You admire her a lot, don't you?" Sherlock frowned at him.

"Shut up."

The General jumped down with grace and raised the flap of her silver helmet.

"About time," said Sherlock.

"Sherlock," John warned him and then addressed the General. "It is good to see you again."

"And you too, Captain. Mr Holmes."

"No time for pleasantries."

"You are right. We're-"

The joined cries of horses was heard from the behind the smoke.

"Oh no." Sherlock could see them shooting from the rooftops as the smoke cleared more. "They are everywhere."

"This whole thing is a set up trap and we fell for it," John realised and hated himself for underestimating them. Now that they had found their vampyre queen, they had found strength.

"I won't give up so easily," declared Sherlock. He had his eyes fixed on the rooftops and took John's hand. "Come with me."

"Wait, what do you-"

General Midnight seemed to understand before he did. "Here, take my horse!"

She turned sharply to strike down an attacker from behind and began slaughtering through the masses. John did not hesitate before mounting Silverblaze and holding his hand out for Sherlock to get on behind him. But Sherlock just stared at him. He cleared his throat and looked away.

"What?" John shouted from up on the horse, frowning. "Are you telling me the Great Sherlock Holmes is afraid of horses?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Doctor. I'm not afraid of horses." He crossed his arms in front of his chest. " … They're dangerous at both ends and crafty in the middle. Why would I want anything with a mind of its own bobbing about between my legs?"

John rolled his eyes and grinned. _Unbelievable!_

"Shut up and get on here, will you?"

So Sherlock gave in and obeyed. He wrapped his hands around John's middle and, not without a little sulk, told him to get it over with. John communicated to Silverblaze to gallop as fast as she could and they rode back into the fading smoke. He tried his best to hold his breath but his eyes burned painfully. Bodies were piling left and right, and his ears filled with screams of terror. Sherlock suddenly took the leash from him and the horse made a hard stop, throwing his hooves into the air as she cried out. They were just at the wall of a high building.

"Hold onto me strongly."

"Sherlock?"

He rose from the back of the horse until he stood upright, pulling John up and demanding him to do the same. Feeling dizzy from the smoke and the smell, John stood on Silverblaze's back with wobbly legs. In the middle of a battle zone. Now more than ever, he felt caught in a dream. A nightmare, most likely. If he died now, he wondered, fell down and broke his neck or landed right at the feet of a thirsty monster, would he just wake up in his own bed and get back to a time in which he had never even met Sherlock Holmes? God, selfishly and horribly enough, he hoped not.

Sherlock raised his arm high up in the air and out shot a hook with a rope long enough to reach from where Sherlock's hand had been to the edge of the roof above. He was holding John, pressing him closer and John was wrapping his arms around his shoulders. _I trust you_ , he thought. _Just don't get the both of us killed_.

The rope tightened and they were both shooting higher up into the air. John held onto Sherlock because his life depended on it, and because he was all he had left. They reached the top and were greeted by a very surprised sniper who immediately attempted to kick them right off again. John, still trying to climb onto the roof and get on his feet, grabbed the foot that was about to hit his face and pulled it down as hard as he could. The vampyre fell off with a scream that ended when he hit the bottom. Sherlock offered his hand as John looked back up and together they pulled him over the edge of the roof. Sherlock's other hand was still just one long rope with a hook on it.

"And since when can you do that?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I figured it out some time ago. Good to know there was finally some use to it."

The vampyres had positioned themselves rather cleverly in equal distance to each other on different rooftops but now that they were noticing them their guns pointed away from the streets and at them instead.

"Hey!" one of them cried.

John looked over to Sherlock. "Ready?"

Sherlock's other hand turned into a pistol and they got into position.

"Good evening to you too," John shouted back at the one walking towards them. Then he raised his Sig and fired a bullet right between their eyes. This finally drew everyone else's attention. They cursed and hissed at them before running for it. John shot another bullet and missed. His opponent took the opportunity to keep running and jumped right on him, but John had already taken out his sword which pierced through the vamp as it landed. He got up quickly just in time to meet the rifle's barrel with his blade. A bullet flew over his shoulder. The crashing noise of the gun firing next to his ear felt like it had hit him regardless, inserting a loud whistle that resonated in his skull.

In that moment, the vamp swung his gun and crashed it against his temple. John fell from the blow and the pain. His head felt like it had met a brick wall, blood pumping through it like shock waves. Before he could open his eyes, the hard sole of a black boot was pressed against his throat. It stank of death and leather. The muzzle of a rifle hit the bridge of his nose and John braced for the impact of metal breaking his skull.

"'t was a joy, you know? Watching her killing him." the man said. "Your lover. Makes me enjoy killing you just a little more."

 _James_. John wanted to get up, do _something_ , but the shoe was blocking his windpipe. He would die on this roof. Dying in battle … James wouldn't have wanted that for him.

A loud growl woke him from his thoughts and the dizziness ebbed away. The next thing he saw was the points of a large hook boring into the vampyre's face and ripping his neck open. The impact from the hooks pulled him right off his feet and from the rooftop to certain death. John couldn't take Sherlock's hand this time, as there was none currently on him, but he managed to get on his feet by himself and pick up his sword. "Saved me again, did you?"

"As if that wasn't mutual."

John smiled and he smiled back at him, and the roof was full of warm blood and corpses. Suddenly, a loud cry broke the small moment of peace. Only that it didn't sound like a horse at all. They looked down into the alley where the smoke had finally cleared. The city burned but through the flames emerged a different species. Metallic and blackened from the soot, they ran over several soldiers, just crushing their heads with hooves of steel. Then they came for their horses. They were headed by no other than James Moriarty. Moran was on the horse next to him, shooting vampyres with a shotgun.

"Cyberhorses? Really?" Sherlock put his gun hand on his hip in disbelief. "They sure look uncomfortable."

John frowned at that and the corner of his mouth pulled up unwillingly. Smiling in times like these … That should not be allowed.

"Come now, they're heading to the fountain."

Knowing the deal this time, John took Sherlock's arm in his and squeezed. "I'm going for Moran."

Sherlock nodded and then they jumped. His hook flew through the air and hit the top of the opposite roof. It was dragged to the edge and they both fell through the air until the hook hit the edge and the rope strained, sending them swinging over the masses in the street. John let go of Sherlock and aimed for Sebastian Moran. He was riding towards the General, about to pull the trigger before John landed on him and they both fell off the horse. The metal horse just stopped and another one ran into it. The crash completely destroyed the horse's shell, sending pieces flying everywhere.

Its hooves almost crashed into John as they flew through the air, hitting the ground just inches from him. He rolled away in time and onto Moran and then punched him in the face. Moran shoved him off him and kneed him in the stomach. That beat the air right from John's lungs and he held himself, trying to breathe in. But Moran had gotten up and closed his hand around his throat. He forced him up until his feet were barely touching the ground – how tall was the man?! – and John thought his face was turning blue.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing, John?"

He pushed him into a wall while John struggled with being strangled to death. God, why was he so bloody strong? _Who is this man?_

"Coming here, ruining everything. We were supposed to have so much _fun_ together. But no, you had to crawl right into Sherlock Holmes's fucking mind and make yourself at home." He had the slightest Eastern accent that he was trying his best to hide under an American. He had seen his share of the world. An expert on murder and assassinations. Someone like John … Who was he to someone like him? Just another pawn in the long-term game of destruction and taking over the world.

John tried his best at keeping his eyes open as the life was drained out of him. The last thing he saw would be this pair of steel-blue eyes, wishing it were Sherlock's. They reminded him a lot of Mary's even – another person he wouldn't prefer come to mind in such a crucial moment as living one's last moments – and he realised he had drawn the same parallel on the accents. It made sense that they might have travelled together. Their smiles were equally distrustful, and they appeared to be sharing the same faint scar on their cheek … _Wait a minute!_

John opened his mouth with his last drawn breath gasping out. "Ma- … ry."

Moran's eyes widened for a second, and then his mouth stretched into a repelling grin. "Oh, so you finally-"

John, whose vision had gone blurry and grey as his consciousness slowly said goodbye to him, distantly wondered why that sentence had ended so abruptly. _Come on_ , part of him thought. _One last mockery and then kill me already_. When the hand around his throat finally disappeared, John sank into the dirt, rubbing against the brick wall, holding his own neck like it might just break if he didn't.

He opened his teary eyes to see Moran on the ground with him, his face all red and eyes wide open. A huge, green snake had crawled up and around his neck and the legless animal, with all its strength and thick body, pressed the air out of his lungs. John was still too dizzy to feel anything but when he came back to himself, he realised Moran was trying to reach the gun that lay an arm's length away. Before he could take it from him, the shot fell, piercing through the reptile's skin. It went limp in silent pain and Moran breathed.

He heard a woman screaming and knew it was Irene. The pain of her snake dying inflicted the same pain on her and he saw her falling off a black horse and staying down. The world was burning. The corpses were piling. It didn't matter who was winning. He watched metal horses running over his fellow comrades, saw resurrected men and women as cyborgs with cut off arms or even faces, still walking. Probably feeling nothing, thinking nothing, under Moriarty's control. But still walking. Still killing. The screams he had managed so well to ignore up to now were all haunting him in their entirety, waking old nightmares and mashing them up with the cold-blooded reality of his greatest fear. War in the city that he loved. The loved ones that had taken him so long to find suffering in an impossible battle.

He looked back down to spot where Moran had almost been choked to death by a snake. He was gone. The snake was still there, dead. He raised his head and his eyes locked on Sherlock's form. He had grown his one hand back, the one that wasn't currently a colt, and fought James Moriarty with a sword. Moriarty was bleeding from his face and his clothes were dirty and badly torn. Sherlock didn't look much better, with the exception that he couldn't bleed. He could only wear the blood of the dead around. Every time metal met metal, the blades were screaming for mercy. Sherlock broke down first.

 _He is going to die_ , John realised. He did not think about how the love of his life was dead since the day they met, did not think about losing his own life for him. He would have died a long time ago had it not been for him. With all the strength left, not in his body but in his heart, he made it to his feet, picked up sword with the one and gun with the other hand, staggering over and past groaning soldiers, thrusting their weapons through the enemy's body, vampyres sucking people dry on the floor, cyborgs walking on and on.

Moriarty held his sword over his head, madness in his eyes. "We don't have to do this!" he yelled down at Sherlock. “You are just like me, can't you see that? We could've changed everything!” His voice was breaking towards the end of each word. He looked devastated. Insane and like mass destruction but at the same time … heartbroken.

"Moriarty!" John shouted, gun pointed at his head.

Moriarty turned to spot him but the trigger was already pulled before John could cry a warning.

"Watch out!"

Moriarty threw his hand up to shield the back of his head. He looked over his shoulder, observed the bullet stuck inside his hand and finally saw what John had now pointed his weapon at. Eurus was behind him! Moriarty pulled the silver bullet out of his hand, revealing wires that sprayed sparks. He met eyes with her through the hole in his palm. So he had made part of himself into a cyborg! _You are just like me_.

Eurus smiled happily. She started running, running towards them, shooting left and right without looking. "The detective belongs to me, brother. You have to go!"

But Moriarty was spreading out his arms and held his stand in front of Sherlock who was still on the floor. "You are my greatest creation," he told him over his shoulder, "Don't think I'll have this bitch destroy everything you are."

John ran towards Sherlock, offering him a hand up. "Are you alright?"

Sherlock took it and got to his feet. Snakes were all around Moriarty's feet now. He tried shooting Eurus but she was too fast, everywhere and nowhere, every shot a miss. The snakes were trying to get to her, and she screamed as she stumbled over one of them and tripped. Moriarty took the chance to throw himself onto her.

"Get away, Sherlock!"

And John couldn't believe he was thinking this but Moriarty was right!

"Sherlock-"

An earsplitting roar robbed them of the chance to get Sherlock away from here before they could have made any attempt. Before he knew, a huge tiger was running towards him, pushing him down until his head hit the stones. As he opened his eyes, Mary Morstan was lying on top of him, pale and naked, her eyes boring into his. Her neck was just as bruised as Moran's, her voice deep and her teeth those of a predator. " _John_."

He kicked her off and pinned her down instead, and in a blink, she was Sebastian Moran again. It didn't matter, same person, same enemy, so he punched him in the gut and watched him spit out air and then, with the incredible strength he had, roll back on him, now with his claws scratching on his armour. The tiger was back, keeping him down with its five hundred pounds and immeasurable strength. It bared its teeth and John was sure if there was ever a time for a tiger to bite a person's head off it was now.

Instead, it cried out like a giant kitten, the sound resembling in John's whole body. And then the blood began to spill. Sherlock let go of the sword's handle. It had pierced through the orange fur, the skin and flesh of the tiger, and slid between its ribs like a knife through butter till most of the blade had vanished inside of the animal. Together he and Sherlock pushed it over and off John's body. Without the armour on it would have crushed some of his bones for sure.

Their eyes met in between heavy breathing and blank minds, and together they watched, around so many human corpses, how this huge beast took its last breaths and slowly shrunk and shrunk. What remained was one Sebastian Moran, naked and wet with blood and sweat, dying in a pool of his own suffering. The gurgling of his lungs filling with blood could be heard even over the screams and shootings, and soon it was streaming out from his mouth.

"NO!" Moriarty's cry at the sight of his Sebastian inherited the pain of a whole lifetime, a little boy's hurt soul who always had to hold it all back. In that moment, Eurus's sharp nails struck across his face. He stumbled backwards, and Eurus grabbed his gun. A shot fell and Sherlock's eyes widened.

His hands both clenched around his chest. He scratched and gasped and kept searching with his hands and eyes. There was nothing there. Eurus had shot right through him, revealing the empty space, oh, so much empty space where no heart was pounding. The hole in him exposed the wheels turning and cogs spinning and some had flown out, continued to fall out of him. He could not speak. But he _felt!_ Felt it all.

Sherlock's face was full of tearless pain, bloodless death. He was dying. The shock set in and somewhere in between he had started screaming, gasping. John felt like a man struck by thunder, unable to move or think or comprehend.

“Sh-Sherlock,” he thought he was uttering under his breath but he could not be sure if it was him, if this was real.

Eurus was laughing furiously, shooting the air in triumph. "Finally he falls!"

Suddenly, everything was happening too fast. He hurried towards him, cupping his face, urging him with his eyes to look at him. He needed to get him through this now. It was just like falling asleep, he told himself. If he lost him to the trance, he would be gone. Only not just for a night. For ever.

"Sherlock, stay with me. It's alright, we'll get you through this."

They had lost everything. No matter the outcome, the loss was certain. Eurus was triumphantly stepping on her brother's windpipe with her foot. Moriarty was lying to her feet. He tried to reach for Moran. But Moran, dead and empty behind his eyes, was facing the other way. And somehow, that made Moriarty's eyes just as empty. There was no energy of him around. No aura. No more will to live. No family. John saw himself in Moriarty's place, saw through his eyes across the battleground, past the piling bodies, a dead Sherlock Holmes. Heard in the distance no noise but that of fire, comfortably burning away homes and feeling nothing of the heat. Only cold, cold death's grip. And somehow, he did not want him to die like this.

Eurus watched him, a keen interest in her eyes, hard as steel. "You're next." Her finger brushed the trigger again.

John did not break the eye contact. He was done with all of this. Supporting Sherlock's weight with all his muscles could still give, he stood tall, his mouth a hard line, his eyes tired. He stared down the barrel of her revolver.

"I don't think so," he said.

Eurus tilted her head with interest. Her smirk faded as soon as she felt the breath at the back of her neck. Irene Adler stood behind her, incredibly tall, appearing almost as a glitch in space and time. She was made of long fangs and black eyes and grew tall, tall and enormous. Eurus's head fell back to look above her where Irene still rose and rose, and on her face, for the first time, John made out something like fear.

Irene's mouth seemed to be snapping in two, her enormous head breaking where her jaw should have been, and a tongue rolled out, as long as her body itself. From one second to the next, she threw herself down onto Eurus Moriarty. In one moment she stood there, staring up at the snake queen and in the next she was gone, gone before she could so much as scream for help that would never come. She was being devoured wholly like a snake devoured a mouse. Eurus struggled and kicked against the walls of Irene's gigantic mouth until the outline of a hand was the last thing anyone would ever see of her again.

The Woman shrunk down, teeth disappearing, and she gulped once. Her eyes turned back from black to blue and her teeth were purple with blood. Her jaw made a cracking sound as it was growing back together. In her naked form, she sank to her knees in complete exhaustion. She sat on her feet just where Eurus had enjoyed her victory over humanity, and was it not sweet, sweet irony to see that same humanity saved by something the humans feared so much? She brushed her hand over the wounds on Moriarty's face and took one of his hands in hers.

The street had become quiet. The cyborgs had stopped moving and the vampyres stared at where Irene now sat, on a pile of corpses, joint by those they were fighting against. Their leader was gone. What was there left to fight for now? The world did not seem to know, so it stood still in silence.

 

John knew what he was going to fight for. He would not stand still and silent. Sherlock became heavier and heavier to bear as he grew weaker.

"I won't have you die on me," he whispered to him as they sank down together. "Not on my watch, I won't have it."

Sherlock cracked a sad smile, and for a second he saw Sholto. "Threatening the patient, Doctor? I don't think that's fair."

"Shut up. Tell me what to do."

"I-" Sherlock paused.

"Sherlock, now! You're dying."

"No pressure." He began coughing but coughing out screws. "We could try to- to find my body, my _real_ body. My heart. I- I need it."

"I have no idea where to get to Moriarty's hiding place!" The panic started to come for John. If they did not act soon, Sherlock would not make it.

" _I do_."

Moriarty somehow felt the need to speak up from where he was lying to Irene's feet. She was still stroking his cheek, closing the wounds, it seemed.

John huffed a humourless laugh. Oh, the audacity! "Why would we even begin to believe you?"

The fire kept burning away around them, unbothered. "It's not far from here. Brompton Cemetery. But you won't find it on your own."

"He's... telling the truth," Irene realised.

"What is there left for me to lie for?"

Moran was still bleeding away.

The stones beneath them vibrated as two horses arrived and came to a sharp hold before them. One was Silverblaze with the General on top. So she had made it! She looked smothered in her armour and as she heaved her helmet from her head, her hair was sticking to her forehead and the sweat ran down her temples. Lestrade was on the other horse with Molly seated behind him. _Thank God!_ They jumped off and circled around Sherlock who was still clinging to John's arms.

"Holmes!"

"He's dying," John said, trying to keep his voice from breaking. "We need to get him out of here."

"Here, take Silverblaze." The General offered her leash.

"Let me show you to way to my chambers," Moriarty screeched. Suddenly, everyone finally noticed the company.

Lestrade clenched his hands into fists. "You gotta be bloody kidding me!"

"Wait," Sherlock gasped, "He is right. We cannot get there without him."

"You cannot be serious!" Molly burst out, her face a mixture of anger, of wild desperation and little hope.

Sherlock's cold hand stroke over John's cheek. "John, you know this is the only way."

"Irene knows the way. Let her go with us, let Lestrade take care of him."

"Irene can heal the wounded while there is still time. No one else can do that like she can. _We_ cannot do that."

John, no matter how much he hated it, saw his point very clearly. Come what will, even with Sherlock Holmes on his dying bed, there was no arguing with him. Every part of himself was telling him to go against it and he was giving him a sharp nod.

He got to his feet and took the leash. "We're taking him with us," he informed Lestrade in a tone that allowed no room for an argument.

Lestrade did not look happy either. "I will be right beside you then." He took out a pair of handcuffs.

"No, Greg, they need you here," Molly intervened, stepping in between them. "I'll go with them."

"Molly, this is too-"

But she put a demonstrative hand against her holster. "I can handle myself, remember?"

He sighed, then handed over the handcuffs. He gave her a quick kiss and a warning finger, pointing at her. "Don't you die, Molly Hooper."

She smiled and shook her head with enough confidence for him to trust her. He turned to Irene Adler.

"Alright, Ms Adler, let's save some lives."

He pulled James Moriarty from her caring hands and shoved him towards Molly. "I'm warning you-"

But Moriarty smiled knowingly and cut him off. "You have my word." They didn't discuss further how his word had never meant shit.

Molly mounted the horse they had come with, and Moriarty was behind her with his hands cuffed to the saddle. The last thing they needed was the man getting stupid ideas from too much freedom. This time, Sherlock had no more strength to mind the horse and he let himself fall against John on Silverblaze.

"Has our good inspector here ever used those handcuffs on you, I wonder?" Moriarty asked himself aloud in a rough voice that drove goosebumps of disgust down Molly's back. She blushed and suppressed to urge to kick him from the horse.

"Keep wondering."

He was giving them directions as they rode past the empty buildings, past the fires in the streets, the pools of blood and the injured groaning in pain. The main streets were dark and just as dead as the unlit lamps. No cabs driving, no passenger crossing. A sleeping city on its death bed. But at least there was the last illusion of peace. When he wasn't giving directions, he was only talking to Molly.

"Sorry about Tom," he said, not being sorry at all.

Molly said nothing.

"You haven't seen him around here lately, have you?"

She pressed her teeth together and tried not to remember too vividly. "As a matter of fact, I have. What you left of him."

"Couldn't quite prevail the naïveté in his face, I must say."

"I shot him." Seeing Tom as a walking corpse, empty eyed and broken, took all the willpower she had left in her to pull the trigger. But she had pulled the trigger. Saved Greg's life. "He can rest now."

The other half of the ride was spent in silence. The hooves hit the streets in a rhythm pattern as John urged Silverblaze to hurry until Moriarty told them where to stop. They arrived at an old graveyard and bound their horses to the fence.

"Come now, Sherlock." John helped him walk as Sherlock let himself fall into him. "We're almost there."

Molly shoved Moriarty in front of them. He got to lead the way but she got to hold the gun to his head. They walked in between the many gravestones and crosses, some decorated with fresh flowers, others forgotten entirely. John briefly wondered how many more bodies would join those already lying under the ground by the end of the week. At one big quarter of a stone, Moriarty stopped and they with him. The engraving read only a name in capital letters, and Sherlock could not believe his eyes. With his jaw dropped, he looked, one last time, at James Moriarty, speechless. Moriarty caught his eyes.

"Oh, I like that look on you." But he, too, was too tired to keep up the facades. He shrugged. "I thought one day I might change it to your name."

Molly bit her lip as she looked back and forth between them. She had never seen Sherlock so weak and so quiet. "Open it, then," she urged.

He took a step forward and bent down to pick up one of the candles from the grave. The earth began to move and the sound of stone scraping on stone and dirt rippling down disturbing the peace of the dead. The opening in the ground uncovered a large staircase that into the darkness.

"Make yourself at home," he said.

"You stay here!" Molly warned him.

The sudden shake made Moriarty bite his tongue. "If you see the sharks, turn right," he told John.

They exchanged a long stare. John's glaring eyes hopefully told the man all he needed to know about what he had wanted to do to him. But Moriarty's eyes met his through a broken mask. He saw a little boy. He saw young Sherlock staring back. Shaking his head, he swallowed it all down for another day. There was no time to lose.

"I've got you, love," he whispered to Sherlock. Together they entered the chambers beneath the gravestone of Victor Trevor.

 

John was supporting almost all of Sherlock's weight as he was hurrying them through the chambers. He wondered briefly if Sherlock knew this place better than he did. He remembered the patterns of the black stones, the artificial light of the shark tank, the flat faces watching. He remembered the glow from the room in which Magnussen had met his end, whatever that meant for the man. And he just wondered, not that it mattered, if Sherlock had seen all of this before. He did not care but he forced himself to think about anything, anything else, and so he kept on wondering. If he had worked here, so close and yet far away from Baker Street, against his will. Or maybe not entirely against his will. He knew that there were times where he had wanted to die.

His body knew the way. Somehow, miraculously, it knew it for him. His head was far away. But he was running out of things to wonder about, things he did not care about. _Sherlock is going to die._ His mind was playing a loop of it. _He is going to die_. His engine was running slower and slower. Groaning and huffing and with weakening muscles, John fell to his knees in front of the glass tube that glowed blue in the dark, helping Sherlock to lie down on his back before him. He looked over, and there he was.

Sherlock Holmes. The one made from flesh and blood, the one with his heart shining red from where it was still safely stored away behind his ribcage. And then beneath him, dying, was Sherlock Holmes. The one made from metal and cogs and mechanics. The one who could make his hands into weapons and remove his limbs and organs at will. They appeared to be so interchangeable at first glance but John knew better. So, so much better. Only one of them he knew, had fought for, had fallen for on multiple levels that life allowed.

The hole in his chest had only widened, screws and framework exposed. Sherlock, despite all the odds, was smiling. It was no happy smile.

"Alright, John. Listen to me. You have to do exactly as I say, will you do this for me?"

There was no question about it. "Anything."

"Let me go."

"Sherlock-"

"We've come so far together, John. I am so, so proud of you," he whispered. His hand reached out for him and John took it. "Did I ever tell you?"

John shook his head in denial. "No. Stop this. We can..."

"I won't be long. See, I'm right over there." He huffed a laugh, looking over at himself. It must be strange for him, John thought, but for him it was stranger. "You have to... you have to get me back in there.”

"What?"

"Break... break the glass." Sherlock was crawling backwards until his back was leaning against the glass tank. For a moment, John did not know where to look. Who was real and whom he could trust. But he had promised Sherlock to do exactly as he told him. Nodding sharply, he looked around and found a crowbar hanging down from a hook on the wall. It was the same bar Magnussen had tried to pull from him on his last visit here. It rose the question of what they had done with Magnussen's body when they had cleaned the scene.

He grabbed it and gave the glass tank all that he got, smashing against it with a growl. He tried it again. And again. The glass remained unimpressed. Angrily, he threw the bar against the nearest wall and kicked the glass with his iron boots. Nothing. He took out his gun and pulled the trigger. Click. Click, click. No more bullets.

"Shit!"

He hammered his fist against the glass in desperation. His anger faded in a heartbeat as the tears formed, turning his sight blurry. It wasn't rational to cry now. He opened his hands and pressed his palms against the cold pane, separating him from the only hope he had left. But the string of one last hope was thin, about to snap. It wasn't rational but he felt like he was dying with him. God, he hated this. The sadness. It wasn't for him. He liked anger. Anger he could control. But sorrow would only wash right over him like waves on a shore.

"It's not fair," he whispered. _We've come so far._

"John..."

“It's not fucking fair!” He kicked the tank again. Again and again until his foot felt swollen, and yet he felt nothing.

He tried to reclaim his anger, for it was familiar. The red lens came back and his sight became a tunnel. Fuck this. He did not have to reclaim what already belonged to him. He was so angry, he realised. With the world, with himself. It all came crashing down on him now, all the pressure and the losses. He was angry with Sherlock for taking it and risking his own life and his will to give it all up, was angry with himself for loving him, angry with James Sholto for dying in his arms, leaving him with nothing more than a … Oh. _Oh!_

"Something sharp," he mumbled under his breath. With shaking fingers he tried reaching under his armour. His heart jumped up and down in his chest, lit up by a new spark. "Come on, come on."

 _Finally!_ He lifted the necklace over his head and let it sink into his hand.

 _James Sholto_. This was all he had left of him. He looked up between the dogtag, still smeared with dried blood, Sherlock on the floor and Sherlock behind the glass tank. The necklace fell to the floor and John picked up the crowbar. He hammered it down on the tag and it split in two. Two halves. James and Sholto. Picking up one half, he pressed the sharp edge of the metal to the glass and rose the crowbar again.

"I trust you," he told the broken necklace. Then he hit it hard. Hit it hard. Hit it with all remaining strength. And finally, there it was. A crack in the glass. It stretched out and doubled and tripled, like a spider sprawling out infinite legs. The water did the rest. It pressed through the cracks and pushed against the dam until it broke. John's arms flew up to protect his face from the glass but he was soaked and his arms hurt and he was tired. So, so tired. Feeling caught in a never ending dream.

The Sherlock behind the glass was wet and cold when he stepped up to him, putting his face in his hands. _My God, he looks so young._ Just a sleeping beauty. He couldn't see his heart glowing in his chest anymore. He pulled the wires from his skin – skin, real skin! – and held him until they were both on the floor. Sherlock did not make a move. There was no soul in him.

He felt the other Sherlock behind him smiling. "So proud," he breathed out.

He hurried over to him. "Tell me what to do."

Sherlock took out a scalpel from his pocket.

"And you couldn't have told me before that you have that with you?!"

Sherlock smiled and shook his head. God, he really was dying. "It can't cut through glass, John. It cuts through bone if you want it to."

"Why would I-"

Sherlock pointed at his head. "Take it out. Back where it belongs."

"Sherlock, no. How will this work, I'm-"

"You will make it work."

"No, this is you. I don't know him, I don't know if he will remember- I … The person is in the mind, not in the transport, you said it yourself."

"Remember when I first told you about me? You argued that there was more to life. More than... what I reduced myself to. I never felt the same, for there was never much to my life. I couldn't understand. But you, John. You. You are more... to my life."

"Sherlock..." He pressed his hand to his mouth. This is … How could anyone bear this weight? He felt crushed. Putting his life into the hands of another person was the hardest thing to ask. And yet, Sherlock Holmes was asking him.

"It's black magic," he whispered, trying to regain himself. "I won't work. I am no witcher, no genius, I am... I am just me."

Sherlock wiped a tear from John's cheek. He hadn't even realised he had lost one after he stopped trying so hard to keep it in.

"Exactly. You are you. You're John Watson. A doctor … A knight. You're my friend. You are the bravest and wisest and kindest human being I have ever met." He closed his eyes, ready. "Do it gently."

Sherlock had his hand stretched out for him to take the scalpel. So he did. He took it and he brought it to his temple. It was so sharp that it ripped the fake skin just from the touch. John swallowed past the lump in his throat. _Don't cry now._

"Keep your eyes fixed on me."

John took that last order from him and watched as those blue eyes closed, life drained out of them. With the hands of a surgeon, he made a clean cut from one ear to the other, just below his hair line. His skull was cut open. His brain exposed. He took it in both his hands, knowing that he held in his palms all he ever was, a whole lifetime of brilliance and sorrow. And love. He carried it over to Sherlock, the one lying flat on the floor. He was pale and his skin looked soft and vulnerable in the dim light. Carefully, hesitantly, he let his fingers run through thick dark curls before he pulled on them, finding the skull already cut open and empty. He knew, not believed but _knew_  that the world had never spun so slowly when he let the brain of Sherlock Holmes sink down, knowing the fate of his own heart hung onto this like a weak rope on the edge of snatching and letting him fall into an endless black hole.

Once the brain was back in his head, he waited. For anything, a sign from the universe maybe, or an instruction from the other Sherlock, an insult even, telling him he was an idiot for believing this would work. But neither of the Sherlocks would make a move. He remembered Sherlock's story. When he told him of his decision to die. The thought calmed him like nothing had ever before. Now he could make his own decision. So he, too, decided to die.

John put his head down on his chest and stayed until the sorrow would numb him enough. _Like waves on a shore_. For a few quiet minutes, he would have done anything to fall asleep and embrace death. Lying here with a cold body, it felt like the only right thing to do was to become a corpse himself, for someone to find them like this. Rotting away together. But soon, something began to feel... unsettling. Sherlock Holmes had just died. It felt so strange thinking it just like that. There was no weight to the statement. But there should be. There should be an unbearable weight to it that came at least closer to what John was feeling. There should be acknowledgement. A sign in the sky that showed the world England's greatest man had fallen and everyone should bow their heads in mourning. The sun should not shine for at least a week, dipping the world in blackness. Instead, here they were. Alone.

John turned so angry that he could feel his fingers turning numb and tingling. Just when something was blinding him through his closed eyes, he understood that it wasn't his anger that shook him. It wasn't the cold. It wasn't even the numbness.

It was _Sherlock_.

His whole body glowed in the dark. John pressed his ear to Sherlock's chest and waited, hoped, until … _Wum_.

"Oh please, God."

_Wa-wum. Wa-wum._

His eyes were hit by the glowing red light. His heart seemed to have expanded in his chest with each, _wum wa-wum_ , pounding sound, and if this was not the most beautiful thing he had ever heard! A little spirited crow with white wings was flying around his head. It opened its beaker and out came the sound of life. The cut in Sherlock's skull closed itself, and John still marvelled at the crow flying around him in circles until it rushed right into the red glow. It breathed the life back into Sherlock from the inside out, lifting him inches from the ground before he fell back down. His eyes snapped open and he breathed it all into his lungs like a man saved from drowning. His limbs stretched out, desperately reaching for something, but John was here, he was here for him.

He cupped his beautiful face with trembling hands and started to cry. _God_. Sherlock was still sucking it all in, out and in. And then he saw him.

"Keep your eyes fixed on me," John repeated but his voice broke. He huffed a laugh and another one but he still cried. Cried so hard and ugly, sobbing and laughing at himself for feeling so lost when he was holding _everything_.

Sherlock's eyes were wide open and blue. He was staring into a pair full of aquamarine water, one side sprinkled with two drops of amber. They hadn't been there before, the sprinkles and the tears. His replica had not captured him in all that he was. From then on he knew. He knew this was Sherlock Holmes, _his_ Sherlock Holmes, and he was perfect. _My God, there he was_. John told him so that they both knew.

"Here you are."

Sherlock's hands were so hesitant but he could not stop touching John. Touching his cheeks and running fingers through his hair and pulling back again. Like a child seeing everything for the very first time.

"I forgot how it feels to feel."

John brought their foreheads together, tears still dripping from the tip of his nose. "I'll show you."

He let his fingers run over sharp cheekbones and down under his jawline. Yes. _Perfect_. Then he tilted his chin up, just a little, and he kissed him.

Everything was falling into place as their lips met. They met like the two of them had – and had it really just been weeks ago? – unexpectedly but inevitable, two fates overlapping, growing intertwined forever. He deepened the kiss and kept on crying. But they were alright. Both crying and kissing. And finally, finally those blue eyes were allowed to cry again.

They had found his body and woken it, breathed the life back into it. They had freed his trapped soul and brought it back home. They had found his missing heart and linked it to another. Pounding wildly, happy to be alive again. Never to be alone again, making two hearts into one.

 


	18. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drumrolls, everybody. The final chapter. It's fair to say it did not end exactly as I had planned it, and I absolutely love that about writing longer pieces. What you're about to read is the conclusion of a two-year project that I started out of a challenge with myself (aka NaNoWriMo) to let a vague idea come to life. While I wrote the first 50k words within one month, the rest of it was much slower. But I did it! Officially not a WIP anymore!!
> 
> Thanks for reading this far if you did and I hope you liked where it went because I do. Comments, questions? Always feel free to leave them here or on my tumblr.

A dove fell through the sky and fluttered her wings. Gracefully, it landed on an oak tree. John stepped on a feather and out of the shadow the tree cast on the ground. Sherlock was just behind him. He politely kept his distance to give his friend space. There was no one else around but they looked just on the verge of overdressed. Sherlock's top hat pushed down his curls and his tight suit trousers, dress shirt, bowtie, velvet waistcoat and obligatory coat were all respectfully black for the occasion. John did not look much different.

Sherlock studied his back profile. The bowler hat covered most of his sandy grey hair but his silhouette remained the same. Steady, a strong rock in the waters. The way he held himself spoke of military experience but also of so much more. It told whole stories about the weight on his shoulders and the paths he chose to take. The mistakes he thought to have made and the strength to keep on the same path and walk through the pain against it all. Looking up, the sky was all colourless and cloudy but there was light, always light trying to break through. Sighing, Sherlock took out his pocket watch to check the time.

John took one deep breath. Just one. Steady. He had to relearn how to cry. He did that with Sherlock sometimes, waking up from a nightmare about him dying in the chambers and finding comfort in the tears. Finding more comfort in the feeling of his hand on his back, soothing his shaking body in bed next to him. But the tears helped. They were not a sign of weakness, they were a sign of his humanity. Sherlock had proven this to him. Since he was back to being human in form, he had become incredibly human on the inside. He smiled so much at the littlest of things, chuckled at stupid newspaper articles and his eyes would light up with excitement like they had never done before. Sometimes they cried together.

He relearned to value his sorrow when he mourned James Sholto. Many of his nightmares were of him, breathing his last breath in his arms. Only that, with him, waking up did not make the images go away. For they were memories. They had happened to him. Grief meant taking those memories and storing them away safely. To acknowledge the pain and to overcome it by treasuring the happier times.

He breathed out.

The gravestone was cold to his touch. He had visited several cemeteries and never had he liked it. They had always filled him with a feeling of unsettlement, a reminder that death was everywhere. But he liked this gravestone. It was solid, had its curves and its edges. It had its imperfections. And a lovely inscription. He and the General had chosen it together.

 

 

_In loving memory of_

_MAJOR JAMES SHOLTO_

_Beloved Friend and War Hero, forever in our hearts_

 

_"In your soul are infinitely precious things that cannot be taken from you."_

 

 

John had learned as much about the soul. He knew it did not lay here buried. He knew it was long gone, off to the place where souls reunited above the clouds. Still, he had brought flowers. A bouquet of pink carnations, neatly bound together. Gently, he let it fall onto the soft earth as he bent down. All things said, he looked over the grave one final time. Nodding once. Breathing in. Breathing out.

He looked over his shoulder to find Sherlock still there, waiting for him.

"Alright," he said as he rejoined him. "Let's go."

They left the graveyard in conjoined silence and the dove flew off, letting herself be taken by the wind.

 

They took the long way by foot, taking their time today to feel the heart of the city pounding again with the people on the streets around them. On their way, they took the road through Burgess Park, where the last five-fold leaves were fainting from green to chestnut and began covering the ground and leaving the branches naked. For the entirety of their walk they rambled about together, in silence for the most part, as two men who knew each other intimately. The sound of drums and people reached them as soon as they set foot on Tower Bridge to cross it. After giving each other a quick look that conveyed the same message – _Should we really be doing this?_ – they began to cut their way through the masses. The excitement going on around them was gruesome but it was also expected.

Someone recognised them and helped them get to their seats. They had been arranged for them and they sat down with polite smiles in the last row of a stand for the privileged. John didn't feel privileged. It should never be considered a privilege to get a better view of people dying. So many people had come to Tower Hill on this cloudy day in late-autumn; people from all classes and ages, guards in their uniforms, old ladies in their corsets and children with holes in their shoes. Everybody wanted to see a vampyre hang.

While they were here, Irene Adler was attending a meeting at the Diogenes Club. Since she had defeated (or devoured) the vampyre's initial queen, she had gained a rank of respect and authority over them. They were intelligent but they were still a huge pack, demanding a purpose in life and for someone to give that to them. The counting of their losses and the understanding of the Moriarty sibling's madness had made them see the world clearer. Irene was aiming to negotiate the terms of peace between the humans and the inhuman, hoping that one day they may live side by side. It would take time to eliminate the prejudices and let history be history but they wanted to begin by tearing down the wall around the city piece by piece, stone by stone. But, as Mycroft had put it, the people still demanded that justice follow. James Moriarty had to be hanged from the gallows.

John was watching Greg Lestrade, who stood behind the man reading aloud a list of Moriarty's crimes against the crown. He had his hands behind his back and, as the new Chief of Scotland Yard, made sure that Moriarty would stay just where he was, with his hands bound and his eyes watching the crowd. Someone threw an old tomato on him and he rolled his eyes.

"Meow!"

John straightened in his seat as a little striped cat was running between the rows and between their legs. The animal made sure to rub its cheek on John's leg and get some fur on his suit trousers before it moved on and jumped from the stand. He shook his head and continued to watch the scene unfold. Looking up next to him, he was surprised to find that Sherlock made a similar face. Almost pained, torn between the urge to look away and to act. He reached out to take John's hand in his. _Warm_.

The man standing in front of Moriarty was still shouting about his crimes in a monotonous voice.

John squeezed Sherlock's hand. "Am I going mad here or does it also seem to you..."

"Yes," said Sherlock. He did not even know what he was going to say before Sherlock did. Did it seem what? Cruel? Wrong? Dehumanising?

"Then I hope you are not thinking what I am thinking."

"What you're thinking I am thinking or what you are thinking also?"

John frowned and made sense of that. " … The latter."

"I am sorry to disappoint."

"Do you have a plan?"

"Depends," said Sherlock, "Do you have your gun on you?"

John looked over at Sherlock and their eyes locked. That settled it then.

A second later, Sherlock had disarmed John, pulled him up for all to see and pressed the gun to his head.

"This man is my hostage!" he cried.

The whole crowd spun around. All eyes on them. _Good_.

"Hostage?!" John whispered in honest hysteria. "Great, just great."

"Now _run_."

John pretended to break free by hitting Sherlock in the face with his elbow. Although, he did so by actually hitting Sherlock in the face with his elbow.

"Ouch!" Sherlock held his nose in real pain. What a privilege, feeling pain again, was it not?

John shoved his way through the crowd while Sherlock quickly balanced over the seating rows of the stand. Suddenly someone was yelling, "That's Sherlock Holmes!" and the people weren't sure whether to scream or to applaud.

"Quick, don't let him get away!" John cried.

Sherlock jumped onto the stage where the man, intensely emerged in his text, had finally stopped reading and just stared at him. Instead, the executioner, a big man, was behind him. He pulled out his sword and looked fully committed to making it at least two executions for the day. The big man drew his big sword and swang it all the way but John was already behind him. He gave him a shove and caught the sword as it flew out of the man's hands and the man from the stage. John had the sword pointed at Sherlock, daring him to defend himself. Sherlock, with a full pirouette, pulled another sword from the holster of the guard still holding the paper with the list on it. Steel hit steel in mid-air as they began fencing each other, blocking every blow in their improvised performance.

Moriarty clearly enjoyed the view from where he was standing, though there was an obvious surprise on his face at the current proceedings of his execution. Well, but who wouldn't be surprised? The audience certainly had no idea who to root for or whether to cheer or panic, so their eyes just went back and forth between John and Sherlock until the other guard on the stage gained back enough of his composure to stomp angrily.

"Enough of this nonsense! Hang him already!"

The guards standing by threw a very confused look at Lestrade, who was just pinching the bridge of his nose and shaking his head like this was all just the usual madness with those two.

"Do as he says," he told them in an exhausted tone before straightening his posture and shouting, "Holmes, really?"

The two guards came up on stage and hastily began getting Moriarty's head through the noose. Moriarty nodded at them in sympathy. "Pardon me for the delay. Of course, I don't know about you, but you see, I didn't exactly have any other plans for the day."

"Now!" The man who had angrily stomped his foot stomped his foot again.

On his command, the planks beneath Moriarty's feet fell away and he fell with it. John had walked Sherlock backwards and closer towards Moriarty. The guards were just about to grab him and end this fight when suddenly, Sherlock jumped backwards and through the hole Moriarty had fallen through. John's sword missed Sherlock's head by a few calculated inches and tore through the rope instead, bringing Moriarty to his feet beneath him. Below John, Sherlock helped a coughing James Moriarty to get his head out of the noose with the now cut rope that had almost choked him to death.

"Why?" James asked as he helped him get up.

But Sherlock only said, "I must be an angel, mustn't I?" Then they ran.

John pressed the heavy sword into the arms of a very confused guard and caught up with them. They reached the Thames and James took a look over his shoulder.

"This could have ruined your lives."

John looked up at Sherlock and nodded.

"Well, then," James continued, "Happy ruined lives to you too!"

"I hope you don't drown, you bastard." And with that, John shoved him over the railing to watch him fall into the river water. The other guards caught up, all bending over to see if Moriarty would emerge on the surface. He was smart enough not to. Either that or he couldn't swim.

After everyone had caught their breaths again and there was still no sign of Moriarty, one of the guards looked up between Sherlock and John. They had both lost their hats in the fight and chase.

"You know we will have to arrest you now, right?"

"Yup."

The Chief Inspector was already waiting for them at Scotland Yard.

 

Lestrade was just palming his face when they were sitting in his new office with handcuffs on.

"Why?" he asked. "Why help him? The man who tried to kill us all. Who succeeded in killing _you_!" He was looking at Sherlock.

Sherlock, who had bowed his head in – well, it certainly was not shame but an apology perhaps – turned his head to John. John knew the look on his face. He was about to unravel something difficult. Something from the heart.

"Once we were both but two lost boys. Craving a very simple thing and finding hope in an almost utopian idea, and yet something that should never have landed in the hands of men. Now, I cannot look anyone in the eye and justify his actions. Nor my own actions. James Moriarty is, by all means, a criminal of the law and I would not put my hand in the fire to prove his sanity, _but_ … The end of him ought not be tragic. I know that for a long time the end of me was going to be exactly that. Before I found … " His eyes flicked over to John again, for the briefest of seconds, " … peace. I chose the side of the angels because I was lucky enough to be given the choice. Not all of us are." His hand found John's under the table and John gladly intertwined their fingers. He knew this had to have been hard for him. He was very proud.

Lestrade was obviously having a hard time not to show his inner conflict. He took a deep breath through his nostrils. " _Holmes_ -"

"In the end," Sherlock raised his voice to interrupt Lestrade but with a sigh the room was calm and he was quiet again. "He saved my life. It was the choice he was given and he made it count. Watching him die in my stead would not be right. But knowing he can find his peace too after a lifetime of tragedy would be... just."

Lestrade watched him in fascination, almost like he was studying him, having his fist closed in front of his mouth. In his next breath, he huffed a laugh. "My, my, Sherlock Holmes. I have known you to be a great man. But when have you become a good one?"

John quietly smiled to himself. _Always_ , he thought. But he could keep that little secret to himself.

"And I have known you to be a man with many things going over your head, Chief Inspector."

"Maybe." Lestrade took a long moment to look back and forth between the two of them. "But not all of them."

John was not surprised. He had long assumed that Lestrade had to have picked up on it, or that at the very least Molly Hooper must have given him a hint. Yet, as he looked over, he saw that the very great and very good Sherlock Holmes was sitting there with wide eyes and a faint blush travelling up his cheeks. Then he shook his head and smiled.

"Of course. Are you going to arrest us now?"

Lestrade smiled back at him. "Oh, I would have many good reasons to lock up the both of you. But this is not one of them.”

So he had their handcuffs removed and they all shook hands. They congratulated Lestrade again on the promotion (even though the old Chief had left them under very unfortunate circumstances) and then they went home. Home to Baker Street.

 

It was another cloudy afternoon on which the good Mrs Hudson, bless her soul, had already lit the fireplace when Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson returned to Baker Street. They were just coming from the Criterion; a little catchup brunch with the Adlers, as they had grown into doing from time to time.

After the first hour had been spent on discussing the most recent casework and Irene's newest career goals – from fortuneteller to politician to singer to nude model (which she had all mastered with perfection) – Sherlock and her often only ended up teasing each other about the most nonchalant things in an order of words that Oscar Wilde would've been proud of. While John loved to listen to Sherlock (and to Sherlock being beaten by someone very very clever and equally eloquent) he had come to enjoy his own conversations with Kate a lot. They did have surprisingly much in common, although not as surprising perhaps, as they were both the chosen companions of some mad and mysterious genius.

But as much as John liked their brunch dates, he was glad to be back in safe and warm 221B, having it be just the two of them. It was almost time for a round of afternoon tea. But first, there was something else he craved a little more. Standing in the middle of their living room, with the curtains drawn wide open before the large windows, he smiled at Sherlock from across the room and held out his hand.

Sherlock tilted his head in curiosity and walked over to him. John took his one hand and then his other in his hands and squeezed. This face, Sherlock thought as he looked directly into ocean blue eyes, was that of a man who loved honestly, unconditionally. Still not believing he could truly have this, deserve this, he knew the least he could do was the same and more.

"I missed you," said John.

Sherlock smiled. "I haven't gone anywhere without you."

John looked down. "I know." His thumbs were stroking over the back of Sherlock's hands and then he pulled a little, standing on the tip of his toes. And just like that, they met in the middle, kissing in their open living room. They could get arrested for loving like this. It would not matter that they had saved a whole damned city. John pushed the bad thoughts away and pushed harder against Sherlock, pulling away and kissing him again. When they parted, their foreheads fell gently against each other, touching.

"I love you."

John's heart skipped a beat. He had said it to him before, in very dark nights when the rain was whipping against the windows. In early mornings when only the birds were keeping the city alive. But hearing those words floating to him so out in the open, so clear and so naturally in the middle of the day here at Baker Street … That was new.

"I love you, too."

They each let out a sigh of contentment.

"Hoo-hoo!"

Mrs Hudson knocked on the open door just after she entered, making the gesture quite unnecessary and charming. She looked at her two boys with little surprise and let out a sigh of her own that ended in a loving smile.

"Tea?" she asked, having already brought the tray and the hot brew, and she pattered into the kitchen.

"Yes, please," said Sherlock, still holding John's hands.

John bit the insides of his cheek and tried not to grin too broadly. Sherlock said please. _My good man_.

But once he stopped watching Mrs Hudson prepare their cups and looked back at him he saw that Sherlock had turned his head to look out of the window. Smiling quietly, he let go of one of his hands to slip behind him, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's middle and holding one hand between his and Sherlock's flattering waistcoat.

"What are you seeing, love?" He put his head on Sherlock's shoulder and tried to see through his eyes. What would Sherlock see when he looked down at Baker Street? A hansom driving by, a grey and a black horse, pedestrians, a man walking his dog ...

"A case."

John could feel the excitement quietly tingling under his skin. He felt him wherever they touched, where they connected and his body was warm. _Warm, alive_. Then John's eyes finally caught hold of the one gentleman who stood out, crossing the street to get to their building. He wore a top hat that he had pulled down to cover his face and in his arms he held a little striped cat.

"Is that...?"

"Well." That brought an end to their afternoon of just the two of them. Sherlock let go of John while his eyes told the story of what he wanted to do instead. But the little smile on his face gave the promise of a later.

"Mrs Hudson?" he called. "Make it three cups of tea, will you?"

"Oh, are we expecting a visitor?"

In that moment, the doorbell rang and Mrs Hudson jumped. "Uh! I am not even dressed properly!" She hurried down to open the front door.

John once again took Sherlock's hand in his own and kissed it. "You could have told her beforehand, you know?"

"Not like I could have foreseen this. But she is a strong woman. She can handle surprises."

John elbowed him affectionately in the side.

"Well," he walked over to his rightful chair and sat down. "Shall we?"

"Live with the consequences of our actions, you mean?" Sherlock sat down on his own chair. He still enjoyed how the fire crackled in his ear and warmed his body. You only know what to treasure once you have lost is, is that not so?

John smiled a smile he could not suppress. "Your way is my way."

Suddenly, they heard a high squeak coming from the front door.

"Although, I do hope Mrs Hudson does not raise the price of the rent because of your way."

Sherlock bit his lip, trying to stay professional. Not that John, or their client for that matter, would have him any other way.

"But tonight, my dear," John added and fluttered his eyelashes at him, "I'll take you out on that opera date that I promised you." On their last night out they had visited St James's Hall together and my _God_ , watching Sherlock listen to music was a sight not quite from this world. It transformed him, melted the mask he still put on too often and revealed his gently smiling face and his languid, dreamy eyes, and John would give anything to see him again so enwrapped in the music, watching the energy of it filling him up.

Sherlock finally managed to stop biting his lip and get rid of his sweet little smile. John wished he wouldn't. The eleventh step of the stairs creaked as it ought to and then the man and the striped cat were standing in their doorway.

"Good afternoon," Sherlock greeted him. "My name is Sherlock Holmes and this is my intimate friend and colleague Dr John Watson. Everything you can say to me you may say to him."

Hearing him say those very familiar words always reminded John of the power behind them, and that an evil time might be coming upon those whom they set themselves to hunt down. Or, in some cases, that evil could be surpassed when they decided to save a life.

"Good afternoon to you too … _Sherlock_."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The whole fic contains a lot of references, mostly from the show _BBC Sherlock_ but also from Guy Ritchie's _A Game of Shadows_ and, especially in the last chapter, from Doyle himself. And yes, I admit to having been inspired by the first _Pirates of the Caribbean_ \- because honestly, everyone should be! - and a few Panic! at the Disco songs, which I am only mentioning because the band (hah, "band" aka Brendon Urie) is amazing and you should check them out. Oh, and the quote on the gravestone is, of course, from Oscar Wilde.
> 
> Have a great night, or day, Happy Halloween, Merry Christmas, whenever you're reading this, wherever you are, thank you for your attention!


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